by Adams, Lori
As we peer over the rail, images emerge in the dim light. The dance floor is thick with bodies, and a band grinds out music on a stage. Bailey points to the left, and I look. There on the wall is a display of metal gears of varying sizes. They are churning like the workings of a watch. A woman is mounted on the largest gear, spread eagle, with a black ball in her mouth. She is lucid and her eyes are wild with fright.
Bailey and I look at each other in horror. She grabs Vaughn’s arm, and I clutch the railing and grit my teeth. Rage boils inside me. This horrific display of evil is wrecking havoc on my nerves. I want to lash out at something. I want to rush in and help those that I know don’t belong here.
But I have to remind myself to stay calm. If I were to expose myself, I’d put Bailey at more risk than I already am. I realize now that this is far more dangerous for us than I thought. I’m here for a good reason and I’d damn well better try to fit in.
From this angle we can see the band, which consists of the repulsive and bizarre. Some members have shrunken heads, gnarled and dented heads, liquid- or smoke-filled heads, or no heads at all. Some are half-man, half-goat; some with mouths stitched shut; and others with alligator skin. The lead singer has the face of a Picasso painting, with both eyes on the same side and giant, perverted lips. Despite their fantastical appearance, the band appears quite gifted and plays a wildly rambunctious song that I don’t recognize. The dance floor is packed with lesser demon types and an occasional human with a manacle, chain, and black ball in their mouths. A quick survey tells me that it’s the hired help who are hellish, not the demons in civilian clothes like Dante and Vaughn. The abhorrent clearly stand out.
Across from the stage is the bar. It takes up the entire wall and consists of a series of conjoined coffins with glass tops where pale bodies lay interred, eyes closed with a penny on each. The more sophisticated demons hover there, chatting and sipping drinks as though this were any other private underground club in New York. I imagine Teriza partying here and find it even more disgusting.
“Drink from bar?” Kappas yells over the blaring music. “Rum and hot pepper! House favorite!”
Bailey looks at me and I shake my head saying, No way in Hell’s basement are we drinking anything. Dante tells him we are here to see a friend.
“High Alice!” I holler, and Kappas flinches like I’ve startled him. He cocks his head, and water dribbles from his ear. His expression pulls at a vague memory; the gargoyles at the haunted mansion acted very similar and gave me the willies.
“It speaks!” he shouts to Dante, who quickly shoves him in the chest.
“She is my guest!” he yells, abruptly furious. His eyes are flaring and making the man cower.
“Forgive! Forgive! Not usually permitted to speak! Only the one she speak of!”
“High Alice?” Dante shouts to be heard over the music. Kappas nods. “Where is she?”
The song we’ve been trying to outmatch dies out and the low rumble of applause takes its place.
“She special,” Kappas says. “Kept in back. No one see her unless Baron Samedi say so.”
“And where is Baron?”
“Prepare to entertain. Love to entertain.” He points to the stage where band members are rearranging the set for something big. “We speak after show. In meantime, escort to table?” He gestures toward a balcony above the bar. It’s for the elite demons; the private club within the private club; no manacled humans allowed. The furniture is a conglomeration of modern meets Baroque, lavish red velvet high-backed L-shaped sofas, and chairs with backs that rise five feet high and come to a point. The low tables are rectangular glass filled with swirling red or green or yellow smoke. Several people lounge on the sofas while others mingle in groups of five or six. A few are seated at gaming tables, and further back is a craps table lined with men and women in formal tuxes and expensive furs. It looks rather normal and elegant, until I realize the fur wraps are alive, and the mink and fox heads are looking for someone to bite.
As we follow Kappas around the steel walkway, he points out people that Dante and Vaughn may know.
“Marquis Naberius. You want, I take you there. Him with guests.” The marquis, seated on the sofa, has black hair that is slicked back like Dracula’s and an ominous widow’s peak. He wears a black cape and holds and elegant black cane. When he laughs at something his companion says, his face seems to vibrate, and for a moment I think he has the head of a raven. But it happens all too quickly and I can’t be sure.
“And there, Count Halphas with Knight Furcas.” Kappas indicates two men standing at the rail. The count resembles a stork in a coat and bow tie, and the knight is smoking a pipe that is half of a jawbone with teeth still intact. He is educating the bird man on something important, and every time he takes a puff on his pipe, flames shoot out of the molars.
Vaughn says, “Hey, look, there’s ol’ Chax. Didn’t know he was back on the surface.” He points out some guy covered in silver jewelry: necklaces, earrings, bracelets. He even has silver chains hanging out of his pockets. He’s talking earnestly to a woman with a green Mohawk and angry red eyes.
“Why all the silver?” Bailey asks.
“And why is he standing in the middle of that triangle?” I ask.
“He has a slight fetish for silver, and when he’s confined inside a triangle, Chax is forced to tell nothing but the truth.” About this time, the girl hauls back and punches Chax in the face, and Vaughn breaks out laughing.
“You like?” Kappas indicates a table for four by the rail, and Bailey and I hurry over. We want nothing to do with the freaks.
“At least the Mohawk girl seemed normal,” Bailey says from across the table. And then the girl walks by, and we notice that her head is divided down the middle with the left side facing forward and the right side facing backward. We’re tempted to crack a stupid joke about being two-faced, but we’re too scared.
Vaughn wants to order drinks but Dante won’t allow it. I’m grateful that he’s being careful with us.
“Thank you,” I say.
“For what?”
“Bringing us here. Protecting us.”
He wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me against him. “It’s for us, that I do this, yes? When we find the book and have the spell, we will be ourselves again. Just you and I, as we were before.”
I nod as my stomach twists with painful knots. I have to prolong the lie. “But it may take some time, Dante. You realize that? It probably won’t be all, abracadabra, and poof, I’ll remember.”
“And perhaps it will.”
“But if it doesn’t, you’ll be patient, right?” I say this like it’s a done deal, but Dante’s eyes narrow playfully.
“I have all the time in the world, cara mia. But perhaps we can prompt certain memories along? Hmm?” He caresses my cheek with the back of his fingers, letting them drift down my throat and across the top of my breast. I shiver at his scorching touch. I’m prepared to stop his wandering hand when it dips inside my top and Dante jerks back in sudden anger, his fingers smoking.
“What?” I gasp and grab my chest. Something white-hot sparked against my skin.
“What do you have?” he demands, yanking my hands away. He starts to unbutton my blouse.
“Hey!” I yell and slap at him. He knocks my hands away and then forces my top open, exposing the gray stone necklace nestled in my cleavage.
Dante’s eyes widen in shock. Then he flings the blouse closed and looks around.
Vaughn leans over the table, whispering aggressively at Dante. “How the hell did she get in here with that?”
Dante has regained his composure and gestures toward the marquis and his guests. They are looking around as though sensing something odd all of a sudden.
“What’s the matter?” I whisper. “Rama gave me an Aumakua for added protection.”
Vaughn scowls. “You fucking kidding? And did he tell you that your lucky charm is magically delicious to most everything in here? You’d be
tter keep your head down or you and Bailey are gonna be human shish kebabs before we leave.”
I clutch my shirt and gape at Dante. He doesn’t seem to get Vaughn’s reference but he does look upset. “I’m sorry, Dante. I … didn’t know.”
He forces a tight smile and pretends that nothing is wrong to anyone who might be watching. “I assume your Ascended Master did not have confidence that I would protect you as we agreed. But he was a fool to let you walk in here with a holy relic. Perhaps I should remind him of who you truly are and that your soul belongs to me, not him.”
“No, that’s not necessary,” I mumble. I catch Bailey giving me her What dafuq you doing? look, and I feel awful. I didn’t mean to put us at greater risk. “Why would anyone in here want a holy relic anyway? I’d think demons would despise them.” Dante and Vaughn look taken aback, like the answer is obvious.
Well not to me!
“They do not despise them but have more of a lurid fascination. Always trying to contain or control what they can’t be. Some even mimic the Forgiven as a desperate show of similarity, but nothing could be further from the truth.”
I glance around the balcony, noticing several demons sensitive to something strange in the air. Please don’t let it be me! Just when I think we might have to duck out, a loud gong reverberates throughout the cavern and attention shifts to the stage below.
The cages filled with the damned and the Cirque du So-losers are removed, and we suddenly have an open view of the stage below. We’re not close enough to get burned by the flames that are now shooting from all four corners, but close enough to feel the scorching heat. The crowd doesn’t seem to mind; they’re shuffling closer, packed tightly in great anticipation. Dante explains that Baron Samedi and his wife, Maman Brigitte, are famous for their parties and entertainment. A very jovial couple that loves extravagant displays of showmanship.
“They don’t sound so bad,” I say, cautiously optimistic.
“He is the Loa of the Dead who escorts souls to the Crossroads, and she is the Death Loa who distracts unsuspecting humans with her laughter and playfulness while luring them to Hell.”
“Oh.” Figures. “What’s Loa mean?”
“Spirit. And Samedi means Saturday. Apparently, Baron prefers to raise the roof on weekends.” Dante smiles because he thinks he’s being current and funny. I roll my eyes.
Down below, the mob is swarming the stage; they seem hostile and starved for something they know is coming, in an almost zombielike frenzy. Not unlike Bailey. She’s been jumpy and nearly speechless, her eyes whipping around and her mouth hanging open. I ask if she has spotted High Alice but she shakes her head and we wait.
The four fire towers around the stage slowly distinguish and then everything goes dark. My knee vibrates with fear and anticipation. I just want to get the book and get out of this hellish nightmare. Dante lays a hand on my knee, and I force myself to sit still. Red bolts of lightning flash across the stage. Thunder booms and more lightning zaps up and over the dome ceiling. Jagged spears of electricity dance all around us, so close we can hear them hiss and snap. The music rises to a Middle Eastern flavor but immediately builds with thumping percussion and voices. It’s a familiar tune, and Bailey and I look at each other with shocked expressions of, Holy shit! You’ve got to be freaking kidding me! We grab the rail and stare down with our jaws slack.
The stage is lit up and a new band is singing “Catchafire” by TobyMac. It’s one of my favorite songs, and I got Bailey hooked on it. The lead singer is dressed in black with a white fedora, a red feather, and black boots with red socks. He sings and wags the mic, whipping around with his dance crew. They dig into the song, swaying and grooving.
I shout over the music, “But this is a religious song!” and Dante gives me his I told you so smile. Ah, now I get it; the damned like to mimic the Forgiven. As if that will do any good now.
The song continues with the lead singer wailing about catching a fire for God. Every time he sings the word fire, the four corners of the stage shoot up towers of yellow flames. If the lead singer is Baron, he’s not what I expected, less flamboyant and more normal. And where is his wife, Brigitte?
I’ve forgotten that the lyrics give way to a female rapper, and there is my answer. Maman Brigitte struts onto the stage to a deafening roar. She is a stunning beauty, tall, dark, and the perfect blend of Cleopatra and Beyoncé—the famous blunt-cut hairstyle but with a crowning white veil as though she’s a perpetual bride, and a curvaceous body covered in a strapless emerald green bikini top and long, sheer emerald green panels of material meant to be a skirt. It rides dangerously low on her round hips, and the open skirt reveals her shapely legs as she sashays around. When the music takes off, she belts out a wicked rap, taking command of the stage. The crowd goes insane, reaching out to touch her. Maman Brigitte has long, thin arms decorated with lace tattoo sleeves that look like green netting. She waves her arms while ripping through her rap, sending the mob over the edge.
The lead singer pumps it up and the noise escalates. He draws the demons in with his smooth voice and luring lyrics; the words are a drug that gets them high, tempting them with the promise of a better life.
Then he slows the tempo, settling the throng while rocking to the groove as one massive beast. Heads sway, anticipation builds. And he starts all over again, only this time calling out to his boy from Kingston town. The fans know what’s coming, and in a flash of blinding light, the stage explodes and there he is, the king of the nightclub, Baron Samedi.
He is a towering black figure, over seven feet tall, wearing a top hat, tails, black-and-white-striped pants, and carrying a black cane. He appears formal but for an indecipherable tattoo branded across his bare chest, and his painted face. The upper half is painted stark white while the lower half has a gruesome black jawbone with white teeth. He wears black sunglasses and walks out stiff-legged and rapping into a mic. He is accompanied by a line of lesser demons who are dressed in black military garb and goose-stepping alongside him. His deep, angry voice growls out the song while the four towers of flame turn dark red and shoot higher into the cavern.
It’s a visual feast, with rings of lightning spinning like hypnotic pinwheels and red flaming towers that scorch the irises. Baron and his wife join the lead singer, and together they blast out the song, working the crowd into a greater frenzy. Arms waving and bodies crawling over one another, it seems they’re hoping to catch a fire for God. Theirs are cries of agony, and I don’t know if it’s hope they’re after or if they’re just tormented by what they’ve lost.
It’s a sickening display, and just when I think I can’t take any more, the song ends with a detonation of sparks and raining fire. Bailey and I cover our heads as everything around us is gradually coated with glowing embers.
There’s no time to discuss the freak show because Kappas has returned. “Up,” he says. “We go now.”
Finally! I’m ready to end this nightmare!
He leads us through a maze of energetic demons that I hope are too busy with their demonic glorification to sense my lucky charm, which now feels like a noose around my neck.
Along the metal walkway and down the stairs, we dump into the chaos where Dante grabs my hand, I grab Bailey’s, and she grabs Vaughn’s. We snake our way toward the back, following a line of fans that are clustering around a black metal door wedged into the craggy wall. Everyone wants backstage and I feel like a hedonistic groupie.
Kappas worms his way up front, irritating the already hostile mob. He beats on the door, and a giant red eye appears behind a peephole. He says he wants High Alice, and the eye disappears. We wait and I clutch my shirt with the lucky charm beneath it. The lesser demons are too anxious to see Baron and Brigitte to notice anything out of the ordinary.
I’m irritable with anticipation. It’s been a long night already, and I just want the book, and then I want out. I fast-forward in my mind, imagining Rama working the spell and making another me. As bizarre as it sounds, I’m
excited. I always wanted a sister.
Then something hits me that knocks my smile loose. Three distinct tugs on my heart.
I gasp in surprise, and Dante looks down at me. We’re all waiting patiently so there’s no cause for alarm. Bailey looks over and frowns. I lower my eyes. I must be mistaken. I couldn’t possibly feel Michael tugging on my heart, telling me he loves me. Not here. Not now. I haven’t felt it since we broke up. And besides, Michael could never get inside La Croix. So how …
There it is again, and I glance around. So does Dante. No one is paying attention to us, well, no one but the lesser females staring at Dante. They smile coyly and try to catch his eye. I don’t know if it’s because he’s so handsome or because they know he’s a Demon Knight.
Dante asks what’s wrong, and I stutter, “Uh, uh … I need to use the restroom,” and he cries, “Now?”
Kappas points out two doors at the end of the hall marked INCUBUS and SUCCUBUS, and I grimace. Eww. No.
The black door jolts with a sound of metal scraping on stone. The crowd stirs and calls out to Baron and Brigitte. A burly refrigerator-of-a-man steps into the doorway. He is charred black and extra crispy like he might crumble at any moment. He regards us with glowing red eyes that seem to strip me bare. “Enter,” he orders. “Do not speak until spoken to.” He steps aside and we file through the narrow opening. Fans wail in protest but he closes the door in their faces.
It’s a dressing room of sorts with red lanterns and a black thurible hanging from the center with clouds of incense drifting down. The fragrance is earthy and dry. Black roosters and strange symbols of hearts, crosses, and coffins decorate the walls. I tug on Dante’s hand, and he tells me they are Veve, religious symbols or beacons for the Loa.
Baron Samedi and Maman Brigitte are seated on the plush red sofa facing guests in a grouping of chairs. They’re laughing and joking, having a pleasant evening. The red-eyed demon leans over and speaks quietly to Baron and his eyes shift to us. He’s still wearing his stage clothes and makeup, and then I realize it’s not black and white face paint but real. It’s his normal face, and I feel my skin crawl. He’s even more terrifying up close.
