Blue Voodoo: A Romantic Retelling of Bluebeard (The Hidden Kingdom Series Book 2)

by Jennifer Blackstream

  “I do not like being treated like a child,” Gaelle sneered.

  “I meant no offense,” the tikoloshe repeated. The red glare returned to his eyes, shining like spilled blood over pearls. He fixed his gaze on Narcisse. “It was him. He goaded me into speaking.”

  Narcisse bowed his head, keeping his attention firmly on the floor. “I have no place in this conversation. I am a willing servant and I will wait until my beloveds need me.” He slid his gaze to Fabienne. “Though I do hope you need me soon.”

  He filled his voice with heat, looking at his dominant wife with hooded eyes. He thought of all the things he would do to her delicious body once they were finally in their wedding bed, and he let his thoughts show in his expression.

  Fabienne’s chest rose and fell a little faster, and Narcisse could practically feel her pulse on his tongue. He allowed himself a small smile.

  “Bring me rum!”

  A new voice bellowed into the room, the sound holding a physical weight that shouldn’t have been possible in a human voice. Narcisse jerked, the seduction he’d been weaving shattered as all three of his fiancées and the tikoloshe directed their attention to the source of the voice.

  Julien stormed into the room. He was still naked, flesh flecked with dirt and sweat and one ankle patched with shiny pink scar tissue. A red scarf tied around his left arm was the only stitch of cloth on his body. It looked suspiciously like one of the ties from the red curtains in one of the bedrooms. Narcisse bit his lip. A red scarf tied around his arm. There was a significance to that, if he could just remember…

  The impundulu held a sword in his hand that Narcisse recognized from a display in the hall. He brandished it with the bravado of a drunk sailor, and his wild eyes scanned the room, fixing on each person in turn. He sneered and held out his arms.

  “Have you no rum to offer me then?” he demanded.

  Narcisse glanced to his fiancées for some indication on how to react, pausing as he registered the expressions on their faces. Shock and joy tugged at their features, painting their faces like manic jack o’ lanterns. Without looking at one another, they had moved closer together, facing Julien in a straight line of three. The defiant stiffness he would have expected to see in them was missing, their bodies cowed with respect.

  Something is wrong.

  “Ogou,” Gaelle breathed.

  “How?” Esther whispered.

  “This is not possible,” Fabienne murmured.

  Realization dawned on Narcisse and a tendril of dread curled around his heart like a serpent choking the life from a gazelle. Ogou. Warrior spirit, descendent of Ogun, god of lightning. The red scarf, the sword, the demands for rum. Suddenly they all made perfect, horrible sense.

  Julien had offered up his body for possession. And Ogou had accepted.

  Mind working furiously to process this change of events, Narcisse scanned the room. If Ogou had truly possessed Julien, then there was no guarantee the bond the sisters had put on his form would hold. When Ogou left Julien’s body, the impundulu could be free to take whatever form he wished—and that did not bode well for his survival. He needed a plan B. Julien was a pirate, and this was his home.

  There has to be rum here somewhere.

  The sound of a rock scraping against the floor caught Narcisse’s attention and he glanced up just in time to see the tikoloshe swallow his pebble again. Ogou saw it too. The second after the fey disappeared, Ogou leapt across the room, sword arcing through the air in a deadly sweep. Metal bit into invisible flesh and something heavy and wet hit the floor. The tikoloshe’s head and body shimmered back into visibility—ten feet away from each other.

  “It is so hard to find good help these days.” Ogou flicked the blood from his sword. He glanced at the three. “Isn’t that so?”

  “Ogou, we are truly honored by your presence.” Fabienne bowed her head and dropped to her knees, followed immediately by her sisters. “How may we serve you?”

  “I will have the wanga you wear around your neck.”

  Fabienne grasped the object in question, her face hardening even as she visibly fought to remain respectful. “My wanga? But, powerful Ogou, I—”

  Ogou leapt again, the sword slicing through the air. Fabienne squeaked as the rope that held the wanga around her neck fell in pieces, spilling the bottle to the floor. Ogou stomped down on the glass, shattering it beneath his bare foot. A spark flared to life over the green glittering shards and was gone.

  Dominique’s spirit. Narcisse scanned the room with more desperation now, his hands trembling as he rubbed them over his thighs. The voodoo queen would be murderous. He had to ingratiate himself to the loa quickly if he wanted to have any hope of surviving this night. Finally his eyes landed on the table beside the fireplace. Three bottles of liquor sat on its gleaming wooden surface, fine crystal sparkling in the firelight.

  He moved to the table quickly, but not so quickly as to be mistaken for trying to run away—always a poor idea when there was a predator in the room. “Might my fiancées and I offer you some rum?”

  The faces of all three women lit up immediately. “Yes!” Relief colored Fabienne’s voice. “Yes, some rum for Ogou.”

  Narcisse bowed and uncorked one of the bottles. He considered getting a glass, then reconsidered when he remembered who it was for. He approached Ogou and held out the full bottle, bowing respectfully. “For you, great Ogou.”

  Ogou shifted his attention from Narcisse to the three. He blinked rapidly, a line appearing between his brows. Narcisse paused. Ogou was…different somehow. Almost…disoriented.

  “Yes, rum.” Ogou snatched the bottle from Narcisse and took a long pull, eyes flicking nervously about the room as he drank.

  Narcisse glanced at the three. They too were watching Ogou, eyes sharp and bodies tense with restrained movement. They were no longer cowering.

  “Mighty Ogou, may I get you a cigar?” Fabienne’s voice was still calm and respectful, but a new, knowing light in her eyes.

  “No,” Julien—for Narcisse was now certain it was in fact Julien they were speaking to—said immediately. “No, stay where you are.”

  “Oh, but powerful Ogou, surely you would not deny your loyal servants the opportunity to make an offering?” Esther straightened, following Fabienne’s lead. Gaelle said nothing, silent with blood thirst.

  Narcisse glanced at the door. His fiancées were converging on Julien, forming a circle around him. Any moment now he would give up the charade, but his fiancées seemed to have forgotten one thing.

  Dominique’s spirit had been released.

  Narcisse sighed to himself. He’d been so close to having the perfect life.

  As his fiancées focused their full attention on their first husband, Narcisse quietly backed away. Tucking himself against the wall, he crept sideways, slowly and quietly. When he reached the door, he gave his almost-wives one more look and then fled.

  Chapter Twenty

  Molten shrapnel tore through Dominique’s entire being. She tried to scream, but she had no mouth, no form. She was energy, she was a soul with no body. Nothing but spirit and agony.

  Then she was hurtling through space, vertigo spinning her, leaving her with no telling up from down, left from right. She spiraled out of control until finally her soul lost its weightlessness, and dropped like a ship’s anchor.

  Suddenly she had a mouth to gasp, fingers to clench into fists, a chest to heave. Reality crashed down around her like a chaotic symphony, the moonlight streaming through the windows painfully bright after the utter darkness of the—

  The wanga.

  Dominique startled, realized she was standing, then nearly fell over. Her muscles spasmed uncontrollably, shaking, trembling, threatening to scramble her brain. She blinked, trying to focus, to reorient herself. Her heart pounded so hard she swayed with every beat, blood rushing like a storm-churned ocean in her ears.

  The ritual. The bodies. The women.

  The deception.

  Fury scr
eamed like a wild animal inside her and her power sizzled to life, burning against her skin. It had all been a plan. An elaborate plan to trick her into imbuing the corpses with her magic, giving them the connection they needed to leech her power from her. She snarled and scanned her surroundings, searching for the women who had dared to insult her, to imprison her. They would pay dearly for their crime.

  She was in a bedroom lying on a bed made with freshly laundered sheets. It was a familiar bedroom with cream-colored walls, lush but faded furnishings, and…a painting of a ship on the wall.

  She was in Julien’s house—her house—their house—

  It doesn’t matter, concentrate!

  Dominique reached inside her, tentatively feeling around for the pain that had pierced her like fishing hooks, tugging and tearing with every vicious jerk from the three who held the lines. Relief dragged her shoulders down as she found nothing, no connection, no pain.

  Nervous energy swirled inside her and Dominique pressed her hands to her face, mind humming with a barrage of thoughts and considerations. The bonds the three had forged with her were broken, no doubt severed when the wanga had been destroyed. Still, they had been woken with her power, they would retain some of it. Added to their own power, and given their greater numbers, Dominique had to be smarter.

  Her hand fell to the pouch tied to the belt around her waist, the one she’d added today when she’d been going through her mother’s things. A small bottle nestled there, calling to her, whispering that it was time. Dominique slowly dipped her hand into the bag and withdrew the powder, staring at it through the innocuous pale blue glass.

  Julien’s voice echoed down the hallway, a loud, boisterous sound. Something about rum. Startled, Dominique nearly dropped the bottle, frantically juggling it before regaining a solid grip. She glared in the direction of Julien’s voice. What in the world is he doing?

  Wasn’t he aware they were under direct attack by his band of ex-wives? How could he think of rum at a time like this?

  Was he…

  Had he…

  Had they…

  Doubts hovered all around her like sickly ghouls in a graveyard, salivating over her vulnerability, urging her to give in to that insecurity. He tricked you once, they taunted her. Will you be fooled again?

  No. No, I will have faith. He had nothing to do with this.

  Shutting out the odd sounds, Dominique cleared her mind and went to work. She mixed the powder from the blue bottle with other herbs and objects from her pouch, careful not to breathe any of it in. As with all spellwork, more than the ingredients and objects, it was the power that mattered. The power the loa bestowed on her, the power she strove to be worthy of. She was a conduit, letting that power flow into objects that could focus it in the ways she needed.

  When she was finished she clutched the satchel she’d created with her mother’s powder and her own herbs, careful to keep it loosely bound so the contents would be easily exposed when she was ready. She chanted as she paced out of the room, letting the hot tide of her power wash through her, infusing the powder. The words tumbled past her lips with soothing familiarity. Pleas to the loa to be with her, to empower her. Praise to them and humble beseeching for their blessing on her intentions. With every step closer, the voices from the room down the hall became clearer.

  “Oh, mighty Ogou, why do you shy away from us? We are your loyal servants.”

  “Yes, powerful Ogou, will you not give us your blessing?”

  “Lay your hands on us, Ogou, feel the pulse of the hearts that beat only for you.”

  “I will destroy you all,” Julien’s voice growled. “Get back.”

  Chanting rang out like three bells struck simultaneously. Deep tones rolled like burgeoning ocean waves, building to a heart-pounding crescendo full of violent potential. Dominique’s heart leapt into her throat and her own chant stuttered to a halt. She broke into a run, footsteps muffled by the thick rug running the length of the hallway. Pulse pounding, she came to an abrupt stop just outside the doorway to the room that held the voices. She peeked in, forcing herself to move slowly, to avoid drawing attention to herself.

  The three women she’d raised from their grave surrounded Julien, their hands held high in the air, eyes focused with deadly intent on Dominique’s husband. Julien’s eyes had gone black, his skin changing, no longer the tender flesh of a man, but the feathered down of a bird. Reality blurred around his naked body as the change began, but the three women kept chanting. Power rose in the room, a suffocating force like the first blast of heated air from a kiln. His face bulged out, curving as though a beak protruded from behind his skin. It collapsed before it could break through, his efforts wiped away by the magic washing over him. They were holding him in human form, using their own magic to stall his ability to shift. A strangled avian cry tore from Julien’s throat, his eyes burning with pure hatred as he fought, straining to take the form that would allow him access to his full power, allow him to call the thunder and lightning that was his birthright.

  His struggle was great, but there was no mistaking the odds. The power of the binding was thick enough to choke on.

  They will succeed in binding him.

  Loa, help me.

  Her gaze landed on a lump not ten feet away, vaguely human shaped if much smaller.

  A tikoloshe.

  A dead tikoloshe, its head separated from its body, its magic stone lying a few inches from its mouth. Vacant, empty eyes stared into nothingness, glazed over with the film of death. She sent a fervent prayer of thanks to the loa and slowly crept into the room. Every nerve in her body pulsed with painfully heightened awareness, each one screaming at her that she would be discovered at any second.

  The chanting around her continued, Julien’s shrill cries not enough to break the rhythm, the building power. The shout of discovery she feared never came and she nearly fainted with relief as her hand closed around the pebble.

  Without giving herself time to reconsider, she swallowed it. The pebble was cold and hard, and she felt every solid edge as it went down. Dominique winced as it settled like an unpleasant weight in her belly.

  The world looked the same as it always had, as did her body. Dominique studied her arms, heart pounding, waiting for some sign the magic of the pebble had worked for her as she knew it worked for the tikoloshe. It had to work. Please work.

  The chanting of the three grew louder, Julien’s cry growing more piercing. She had no more time. She had to act now, invisibility or no.

  Moving as quietly as possible, Dominique crept closer to the three women. Every step she took farther into the room urged her heart to beat faster and faster. Nervous energy sizzled over her nerve endings, filling the air around her with crackling potential that did nothing to calm her racing pulse. She crept up to the three and opened the pouch in her hand. She held her breath and blew the powder from her palm until it clung to the youngest sister’s long braid.

  Apparently, the tikoloshe’s stone worked. She was able to blow the powder on each woman in turn, careful to get the skin at the back of their necks, but not to blow so much of the dust that it caught the attention of the others. Each approach made her hold her breath, certain that she would be discovered.

  The second she finished, Fabienne froze, her chanting coming to an abrupt stop.

  “What…?” She blinked and swayed on her feet. “What’s happening?”

  Esther dropped a hand to her forehead, her eyelids drooping. “I feel strange.”

  “So tired,” Gaelle rubbed her cheek on her shoulder. “So sleepy.”

  Dominique chanted quietly, urging the power she’d infused the dust with to grow, to bond to the flesh of her victims. She could see the energy arching between the dust particles, making them glow with steadily rising power. Every beat of their hearts brought more magic-tainted blood to their cores, weaving the spell thicker around them like a burial shroud. One by one, the three women fell to their knees and then collapsed on the floor. The rise and fa
ll of their chests slowed…and then stopped.

  A rose fell from Fabienne’s hair, rolling near the tips of Julien’s toes. He stilled in the circle of their wilted bodies and abandoned his attempts to shift. His eyes, still the black orbs of his avian form, flickered over them like he was making sure they were good and dead, and then he stumbled back, hopping slightly to avoid tripping over Gaelle’s arm. He put his back to the wall, scanning the room. “Show yourself.”

  Dominique started to speak to him, and then remembered the pebble. Wrinkling her nose in distaste, she sighed. Using the utmost care, she wrapped the pouch of deadly powder up again, binding it with a length of twine and tucking it into her leather pouch. Resigning herself to the coming unpleasantness, she went to work ridding herself of the pebble.

  Julien flinched, wild eyes searching the room as the sound of Dominique’s gagging drew his attention. Tears came to her eyes and her throat screamed in protest, but she managed to force the pebble back up. She let it fall onto the floor with an undignified thud.

  Now visible, her eyes locked with Julien’s. An instant later, she was in his arms, body pressed against his naked form, his face buried in her neck. A short laugh burst from her lips as she tucked herself into his embrace, relishing the warmth of his skin, the reminder that he was alive and well—and so was she.

  Julien was talking but his mouth was pressed to her shoulder and she couldn’t make out a word. She blinked and realized with a start that she was crying. Tears smeared her cheek as he pulled back, cradling her face in his large, callused hands. Traces of suspicion lingered behind the joy in his eyes. “Dominique, say something.” Julien’s voice was hoarse. “Tell me it’s really you.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “And who else would it be, may I ask? I suppose you think just anyone would risk their skin to save you from your own mess?”

  He laughed, a rich, rolling sound that chased away some of the nervous energy prickling her skin. He stroked the line of her jaw, fingers dancing over her skin in a light caress.“Perhaps,” he acknowledged. Suddenly the smile melted from his face. “But I did warn you. I told you to stay away from them. Why didn’t you listen to me?”