A Deal with Death

by Carrie Pulkinen

  Nausea churned in Odette’s stomach on the twenty-minute drive out of the city. Curiosity had led her to research Emile when she’d returned to New Orleans a few years ago. That and her desire to avoid running into him by chance.

  His website proclaimed him a traiteur, which was odd in itself. Faith healers usually didn’t advertise their services. Then again, word of mouth traveled mostly online these days. Maybe it wasn’t so odd after all.

  His list of services didn’t include anything that alluded to black magic, but that didn’t mean anything. His father had kept his dark side hidden unless the price was right.

  “Make a right here.” She pointed to a narrow dirt road, and James turned, his truck bumping along the uneven path.

  Cypress and pine trees rose on either side of them, creating a canopy over the road, their needles filtering the soft sunlight, making it appear darker than it should have at six-thirty in the evening in July.

  James rolled down the windows and inhaled deeply. “I love the smell of the bayou in the summertime. Don’t you?”

  The earthy aromas of moss, mud, and arbor took her back to her childhood. To the tragedy she was about to return to. “My nose isn’t as sensitive as yours.”

  “You’re missing out.” He reached across the seat and took her hand, trying to lighten the mood, to calm her, and his presence did help.

  But nothing could tame the hurricane-strength anxiety blowing through her mind that returning to the scene of her crime had induced.

  “There it is.” She pointed ahead as the house came into view.

  The wooden cottage looked exactly like she remembered it. Thick coats of white paint, applied over the peeling layers beneath, gave the panels a bumpy, mottled appearance. The corrugated-tin roof had rusted, and a blue tarp covered one corner to stop it from leaking.

  An herb garden took up twenty square feet of the front yard, the rich, green plants overflowing the railroad tie barriers to take in another two feet. Emile had inherited his father’s green thumb.

  James parked the truck on the side of the road and looked at her with raised eyebrows, his silent question giving her pause.

  Was she ready for this? Not really. Not at all.

  She climbed out of the truck and walked hand-in-hand with James up the front steps. He reached for the screen door, but she tugged him along the porch to the side of the house.

  “Always enter a traiteur’s house through the back door. It’s considered rude to go in through the front.”

  “Interesting.” James rubbed at the scruff on his chin. “I’d have thought the opposite.”

  “I think it’s safe to let go of everything we thought from here on out.”

  A wooden “open” sign hung on the door, so she twisted the knob and gave it a push. A set of chimes hanging from the ceiling jingled, announcing their presence.

  She peered up at the wood and metal instrument. “Chicken bones.”

  “What?” James slid past her into the room and followed her gaze to the ceiling.

  “When my uncle lived here, those were chicken bones. They rattled when the door opened.” Her uncle had said the rattle of bones was significant because the people who came to him for help were on their deathbeds.

  She knew better now.

  “Have a sit. I’ll be out in a minute.” The man’s voice was deeper than she remembered Emile’s, but he was seventeen the last time she saw him.

  Odette’s heart slammed against her breast before crawling into her throat. James gestured to the worn sofa beneath the window, and she sank onto the edge, her back straight, muscles tense and ready to flee. What was she doing here? No good could come from this.

  James rested a hand on her knee. “We’ve got this.”

  “I know.” She scanned the room, searching for signs of black magic. A shelf filled with books on herbalism and healing lined one wall, and a lush array of herbs, too delicate for the Louisiana heat, filled an assortment of clay pots on the windowsill. No animal bones. No signs of blood sacrifice. Even the energy in the room felt lighter than she remembered.

  Had Emile moved, taking her only chance of survival with him?

  A woman in a pale-yellow dress entered the waiting area from a side door. Her shiny black hair flowed to her shoulders, and a white daisy pinned near her temple matched her necklace and bracelet. She smiled warmly. “Can I help you?”

  Odette stood, the quick movement more aggressive than she’d intended. “We’re here to see Emile. Does he still live here?”

  The woman took a step back, her smile faltering before she composed herself. “Yes, he does. I’m his wife, Brooke. Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, we don’t.” She tried to relax her posture, to tone down the off-putting aura of death that usually scared people away.

  Unfazed, Brooke took a tablet from a shelf. “Would you like to make one?”

  “This is an emergency.” James stood next to Odette, so close his shoulder brushed hers.

  Brooke’s smile widened as she glanced at James and then looked at Odette. “Let me guess, you need a fertility spell?”

  Odette glowered at the woman.

  “I’m James, and this is Odette.” He held out his hand, and Brooke shook it. “She’s human,” he said, as if assuring her the woman was harmless.

  Brooke raised her eyebrows. “I take it you aren’t?”

  “Just a few more sessions, and it should be cleared up.” Emile’s voice drifted through the door first. Then his patient stepped through, a woman in her eighties with silver hair and bright blue eyes.

  “I still think you should charge a fee for your services,” the woman said. “Donations aren’t a stable income. You can’t count on people’s generosity.”

  Emile smiled. “It’s worked so far. See you next week.”

  As the woman shuffled out the door, Emile’s gaze landed on Odette. His smile slipped into a frown, and he cut his gaze to James and then to his wife before looking back at Odette. “What are you doing here?”

  The fear and guilt she’d kept bottled inside all these years erupted in her gut like someone dropped a Mentos into a bottle of Diet Coke. The little girl in her screamed to run, to leave New Orleans, her past, and everything behind. Running away had worked before; it could work again.

  But the Rougarou would keep killing until it found her.

  She straightened her spine and drew upon her magic, letting it build, gathering a static charge in the air, reminding her cousin of her power. “I need your help.”

  Emile crossed his arms. “Death isn’t welcome in my clinic, and I’ve got bigger things to worry about. You need to leave.”

  “I’m not here to bring death. I want to stop it.”

  He scoffed. “Like you stopped my father?”

  Brooke gasped and covered her mouth. “She’s the one?”

  “She is, and she’s leaving. I’ve worked too hard to rid myself of my father’s bokor legacy for you to come in and ruin everything. And to bring a werewolf with you?” He shook his head and ushered them toward the door. “Out you go. Scoot. And don’t come back.”

  James crossed his arms, refusing to budge. “Tell us where to find the Gator Man, and we’ll be happy to leave.”

  Emile narrowed his eyes. “What do you know about L’Acallemon?”

  “We know he’s the only one who can stop the Rougarou,” James said.

  “And that he can’t do it on his own.” She reached toward her cousin and touched his elbow. His magic vibrated up her arm before he jerked away. “Please, Emile. Will you help us?”

  Her cousin’s fingers curled into his palms as he ground his teeth. “My father took you in when the House didn’t want you. He taught you how to use your magic, how to control it so you didn’t bring death everywhere you went. He may have served the loa with both hands, but he…”

  He clamped his mouth shut and took in a deep breath. “Yes, my father practiced black magic, and while he may not have been the most honorable man, h
e loved you…more than he loved me.”

  Odette blinked, scrambling for something to say. Emile had no clue what she’d suffered at the hands of his father. Crossing her arms, she inclined her chin. “If that’s what you believe, then why didn’t you turn me in?”

  “No one missed the crazy old man from the swamp. Anyway, the magical community takes care of their own problems.” He cut his gaze to James. “I bet your boyfriend can tell you some stories. I’ve heard about werewolf justice.”

  James stiffened, taking a step toward Emile, but Odette caught his hand.

  “You could have turned me in to the House since you say they didn’t want me anyway. Why’d you let me get away with it?”

  “Your dad paid me for my silence.” He crossed his arms to mirror her posture. “But, since there’s no statute of limitations on murder, maybe I should call the police.”

  A growl rumbled in James’s chest. “She was defending herself.”

  “He was attacking me when she killed him.” Emile jabbed a finger at his own chest.

  “Okay, let’s all take a deep breath.” Brooke put up her hands to stop the argument, but a sharp look from Emile had her backing up.

  “He loved my magic, not me,” Odette said. “I had enough bruises to prove it, but I hid them. So, go ahead and call the police. Are you going to tell them a twelve-year-old broke your dad’s neck or that a bunch of ghosts did it? Which do you think they’ll believe?”

  Emile’s mouth opened and closed a few times, his eyes losing focus as he processed her words. “Bruises?”

  Her chin trembled, so she snapped her teeth together. “He beat me into submission whenever you weren’t around because he wanted my power. He thought if he could control a child of Baron Samedi that he could control the dead.” Her own uncle. Her family. Pressure built in the back of her eyes as the knife of betrayal twisted in her chest. A knife she’d thought she’d gotten rid of but had apparently just been ignoring.

  This argument was pointless. No matter how justified she’d been, she did kill Emile’s father. She didn’t deserve his forgiveness, nor did she need it. Asking for his help had been a mistake. She tightened her grip on James’s hand and stepped toward the door. “You know what, Emile? Never mind. If I could survive two years under your father’s thumb, I can survive anything. Come on, James. We’ll figure something else out.”

  She tugged James out the back door and rounded the corner, stopping on the side of the house. Her head spun, and what little she’d eaten today threatened to make a reappearance as she leaned against the porch railing. That confrontation had gone about as well as she’d expected it to.

  “Are you okay?” James faced her, resting his hands on her hips.

  She sucked in a trembling breath, shaking her head. “I knew he wouldn’t help us. He’ll never forgive me for what I did.”

  “He might if you ask him to. Have you ever apologized?”

  “I…” she dropped her gaze to the ground. “I guess I haven’t. I’ve been too busy defending myself, making sure nothing like that could ever happen again.”

  He tucked a spiral curl behind her ear. “Maybe you should. According to Baron Samedi, L’Acallemon is our last hope for defeating this thing. Without him, we’re screwed.”

  She chewed her bottom lip as she held his gaze. Funny how James had turned into the sensible one. “I’ll try. But I don’t think it will help.”

  “Odette.” Emile trotted around the corner, stopping when his gaze locked with hers. “Good. You’re still here.”

  She pushed from the railing and faced him. “You’ve got access to L’Acallemon, and we’re offering to help him defeat the Rougarou. If you really want to end your family’s black magic legacy, this is your chance.” It wasn’t exactly an apology, but it was the best she could do at the moment.

  James cleared his throat. “I think what she’s trying to say is…”

  “I know what she’s saying. I heard every word, and you’re right.”

  Of course she was right. He may have cleansed himself of his father’s black magic, but she was offering him the means to stop a two-hundred-year-old curse.

  “Give us the Gator Man, and we’ll put an end to the reign of the Rougarou.”

  Emile let out a dry laugh as Brooke stepped onto the porch. “You don’t know what you’re offering. You’ll die trying to defeat him.”

  James put his hand on her shoulder. “We’ll die if we don’t. We’re the reason he’s awake.”

  Emile’s eyes widened as Brooke squeezed his arm. “I’ll get some tea. You all better come inside.” She scurried to the kitchen, and Emile led them to his living room. As they settled onto the sofa, Brooke returned with four tall glasses of sweet tea.

  Emile sat in a teal accent chair, and Brooke perched on the arm beside him. “So you’re his target this time.” He chuckled and rubbed his mouth as if to rub the humor away. “No wonder it’s taking so long. He’s up against a shifter and child of Baron Samedi. How did you figure it out?”

  She told him about her past-life regressions, James’s dreams, the imps, and the ghost. “And Natasha said you’re the keeper of L’Acallemon. That your family has been since the beginning.”

  “We have been because we’re the ones who made him.” He pressed his lips together, eyeing her as if he wasn’t sure he should divulge the information. “We made the Rougarou too.”

  Emile paused, but if he was waiting for her to act shocked, he’d be sorely disappointed. She was in this mess up to her eyeballs, so it made sense that her cousin’s side of the family would be too.

  “Curses are made with black magic, which is unstable in itself,” Emile continued. “From what I’ve read, the bokor who cursed the man into the Rougarou had a grudge, and adding negative emotions into the mix makes it even less predictable.”

  Odette nodded. “He killed the bokor’s niece.”

  Surprise flashed in his eyes before he shook his head. “The Rougarou wasn’t supposed to live forever. The curse was meant to make him hideous so he would have to spend the rest of his days in hiding, not quite a wolf but not a man either, and never able to claim New Orleans to start a pack. Unfortunately, with black magic, side effects occur and his strength multiplied, the curse binding his soul to the earth, making him impossible for an earthly-realm being to kill.”

  James put his hand on Odette’s knee. “Has he ever gone up against a werewolf? We slay demons like piñatas. Maybe we don’t even need the Gator Man’s help.”

  “Many have tried.” Emile’s eyes darkened. “The Rougarou went on a killing spree when the curse was complete. Rogue werewolves from the bayou tried to stop him, but he tore them to pieces like they were the piñatas.”

  Emile arched a brow as James leaned back into the seat. Odette took her soulmate’s hand and squeezed it. Now was not the time for a battle of egos. “So your family created L’Acallemon to fight him?”

  “Our ancestors created L’Acallemon to defeat him, but their dealings with the black arts made the loa reluctant to help. Their magic wasn’t strong enough to create an entity that could kill the Rougarou—only subdue him. Without a body, L’Acallemon is no match for the rage inside the monster. The rage that awakens him when the target couple meets.”

  Emile took a long drink of his tea. “I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long, even with your power.”

  Did he not remember what she was capable of? She took a slow, deep breath. Now was not the time for rivalry either. “I have a charm on the house, and we haven’t been out after dark since the killings started. He’s found us though. James has already fought him once and injured him. With L’Acallemon’s help, we can—”

  He set his glass on the coffee table with a thunk. “L’Acallemon can’t do anything without a host. He has to ride someone.”

  Her heart dropped into her stomach to swim around with the churning, nauseating mess of emotions she’d been trying to keep down since they walked through the door. Before she could utter a wor
d, James cut in.

  “I’ll do it. He can ride me.”

  “No, James. You’re not even initiated. You can’t…”

  “I can initiate him.” Emile looked at his wife as she lovingly rubbed her hand across his back. “I’m a houngan, so that’s not the issue.”

  “It’s settled then.” James leaned back on the sofa. “With my fighting abilities and whatever magic the Gator Man brings to the table, the Rougarou won’t stand a chance.”

  “Maybe not.” Sadness filled Emile’s eyes. “But L’Acallemon isn’t really a loa. He can’t move in and out of beings without harming them, because he was created for a single purpose. If you allow him to ride you, he’ll probably sever your soul; it’s what he was made to do. The priestess who created him died in the process.”

  Her stomach, heart, and every other organ in her body plummeted to the floor. L’Acallemon required the ultimate offering in exchange for his help—a life. With her hand on James’s leg, she squeezed until her knuckles turned white.

  “What are you trying to say?” He patted her hand, but she couldn’t release her grip.

  The one and only way to defeat the plague that had been following them through countless lives would kill the man she loved. She ground her teeth, cursing fate for its sick sense of humor.

  Closing her eyes, she blew out a slow breath and swallowed the dryness from her mouth. “He’s saying you’ll die.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “So, if I let L’Acallemon possess me, you’re sure I can beat the Rougarou?” James pried Odette’s fingers from his leg and held her hand in both of his. Her fingers had turned to ice, so he sandwiched them between his palms.

  “According to the notes left behind, yes.” Emile looked at his wife. “Get the book, will you?”

  Brooke disappeared through a door and returned with a worn, leather-bound volume filled with yellowing paper. It creaked as she opened it and laid it in his lap, and the deteriorating pages looked so brittle they might fall out of the binding.