VOODOO BURNING
By Nadine Catalano
Copyright © 2020 N.M. Catalano
Published by N.M. Catalano
All rights reserved.
No portion of this work may be copied or reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without the express consent of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental, except in actual circumstances.
Purely for entertainment purposes for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy.
Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
This one is for all those brave people who give of themselves selflessly.
The ones who face things none of us could dare face.
The firefighters and police officers, the emergency workers and first responders, to all the military personnel all over the world.
This one’s for you.
Thank you is nowhere near enough.
We salute you and appreciate every single thing you do.
Also By Nadine/ N.M. Catalano
The Stranger Series
STRANGER, Book 1
SWITCH, Book 2
KINK, Book 3
PERFECT, Book 4
HIDING, Book 5
SUSPICIOUS, Book 6, coming soon.
Black Ink Series
BLACK INK, Part I
BLACK INK, Part II
BLACK INK, Part III
BLACK INK, The Complete Trilogy, all three parts in one book.
The Program Series
THE BEGINNING, The Prequel
CANVAS, Book 1
TRIFECTA, Book 1.5
BREATHE, Book 2
TORTURED, Book 3
VENGEANCE, Book 4
The King Duet
THE MAKING OF A KING
ALL THE KINGS WOMEN
Stand-Alones
THE ROOSTER CLUB, The Best Cocks in Town
HAWK’S REVENGE – Program Series Spin-Off
VOODOO BURNING
Contents
Prologue
1. He Cometh
2. 14 Days Until Mardi Gras
3. Descendant To A Voodoo Priestess
4. Plantation Heir
5. Found
6. What Legends Are Made Of
7. 11 Days Until Mardi Gras
8. Sacrifice Or Madness?
9. The Powers, They Want
10. 10 Days Until Mardi Gras
11. Retribution Of Sloth
12. There But For The Grace Of God
13. 8 Days Until Mardi Gras
14. Get Some Sleep Because Tomorrow’s Coming
15. Do not let your heart envy sinners
16. Was It All Just A Dream?
17. 6 Days Until Mardi Gras
18. Come Out, Come Out Wherever You Are
19. Tick Tock
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
OTHER WORKS BY N.M. CATALANO
Prologue
New Orleans is a cesspool of humanity.
One would think they’d have learned their lesson by now. Apparently not, or this wouldn’t be happening. Funny thing human nature, how people fight against their decency and give free rein to their greed. It’s that very thing that has gotten them into trouble since the dawn of time. And the selfish bastards still haven’t learned. Then they cry to their God for forgiveness only to do it all over again.
The queen is Mardi Gras, the annual celebration of decadence and debauchery. Carte blanche to do whatever they want with no consequence to their souls.
Ironic, isn’t it, that it comes just before one of the most Christian holy days of the year. Sin like the devil on Tuesday, and on Wednesday promise to give it all up for six weeks.
It’s bullshit.
An old city, New Orleans is a place so rich in magic it has its own brand, New Orleans Magic, also known as Louisiana Magic, New Orleans Voodoo, or Louisiana Voodoo. Imagine that. It is the crown atop an entire culture that has been alive and growing since the 1700’s, not even modernization could stop it.
Ever wonder what makes it so powerful? Here’s some advice: You don’t want to know.
When this little corner of the world, tucked away at the bottom of the country, was first settled, it was like a stepchild who was allowed to run free as long as it observed the house rules and contributed to the betterment of the whole. Which it did, splendidly. Fast forward three hundred years, it continues to, pumping money into the family pockets – the economy - especially at Mardi Gras. Thousands of tourists flock here to get their freak on. While they’re here, they stop in at the local voodoo shops and pick up a potion, or visit a fortune teller to find out what the future holds, or they buy some trinket, charm or amulet, to take home as a souvenir. Humans are so stupid. Just because they can’t see something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. You want magic? You came to the right place; however, most people don’t believe in it. Wrong. There’s a give-and-take in everything. If you want it, you have to pay for it. The problem is the price isn’t given at the time of purchase, and you’re never prepared to pay when the devil comes to get his due.
No one is ever ready.
One
He Cometh
Fire. A beautiful, savage bitch.
Brutal, powerful, unforgiving. It can obliterate everything in its path. It has no conscience and no emotion. It gives you what you need and takes what it wants. It’s a seductress who lures you with her beauty and lulls you into complacency. If you don’t give her the respect she deserves, she’ll destroy you in the blink of an eye.
This is the third incident in six months. Each one as horrific as the first.
Louisiana is steeped in centuries of practices and rituals of monsters under the bed and demon filled nightmares. Things that could steal your soul.
This was a sacrifice.
Civilized society, whatever the fuck that is, wouldn’t believe it and would twist the evidence so that it would fit into a nice and neat little package, something this century could comprehend with all its scientific theories and logical explanations. It would all be bullshit.
Whatever is going on reeks of voodoo and black magic. At least that’s what it looks like on the surface. It’s the sickest thing I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a lot of sick shit.
New Orleans is still rebuilding years after a hurricane practically wiped it off the face of the Earth. Like it was God’s retribution for centuries of sin. Like Sodom and Gomorrah. Apparently, the city’s a tough son-of-a-bitch because it’s coming back with a vengeance.
Whoever is responsible for the fires and the “not” sacrifices is taking advantage of the areas that are still ghost towns. And would you look at that, no one ever sees anything.
All three of the fires claimed a victim, all women. That in itself is horrible. The way they died is evil beyond comprehension.
The first one happened in a building that formerly housed a clinic. In a previous life, it had been the community’s free OBGYN facility, the area was predominantly lower-class government-assisted. Considering most all the structures in the vicinity are not rebuildable, the clinic most likely holds the last spot that could be reopened. But that’s not the point.
When we finally got the fire out and were able to enter the premises, I swear to G
od every one of us wanted to be sick.
We found the victim in one of the examination rooms. She was chained to the wall in the center of a symbol. Apparently, she’d been given a hysterectomy. Right fucking there. The markings on the wall that surrounded her had burned perfectly following each line. With her in the center of it.
Jesus Christ!
Victim number two was found in an abandoned house that had also been destroyed in the hurricane, it’s surprising the walls were still standing with the massive amounts of flooding that had passed through the area. She was in the kitchen with some gibberish scrawled all over the walls. Her body was tied to the table spread eagle and the sick fucks had cut her tongue out. However, just like the first victim, that’s not what killed her. The coroner found she was most likely alive when the place went up in flames.
Who the fuck does shit like this?!
This one, victim number three, I can’t even! Her eyes had been gouged out. They were found shoved down her throat.
What was happening here was serial killing, the likes of which I’ve never heard of. If you ask for my opinion, the murders are just a means for a purpose. A sick, twisted, vile purpose. And I can only hope I never see anything like it again.
Maybe I’m wrong, but the worst thing out of all this is the victims have yet to be identified. They’re all Jane Does and unless something comes up in the databases, these poor women are going to either be cremated, or they’ll be buried in unmarked mass graves. Forgotten and tossed aside like yesterday’s trash in the local dump.
I don’t think I’ve slept since these horrors began. I know I’ve passed out from sheer exhaustion because I’ve woken up in a pool of saliva, hunched over the table, but most likely none of us in the firehouse has had a decent night’s sleep ever since we found the first victim.
Thing is, if your roots are dug deep into the dirt of the bayous where secrets are buried and where New Orleans was born, this sort of thing, as horrendous as it is, is not surprising. The voodoo priestesses still live in shacks along the swamps and the folks still go to them for spells and amulets and potions. That’s why the city is overcome with tourists wanting to get a taste of Cajun magic while they get shitfaced and the women flash their tits. Nothing has changed, it’s just hidden behind manufactured tarot cards and Ouija boards.
Heading home after my three-day shift, I decide to stop by the local diner, not so much to eat, I’m just not in a real big hurry to get closed in by my four walls.
The city is already filling up with the people who’ll be puking all over the streets and passing out in the alleyways. Mardi Gras is in another two weeks and I hate it. They could give two shits they’re blocking traffic, so I have to maneuver around the crowds, when I’d much rather plow right through them.
I pull my motorcycle onto the curb in front of Hattie’s, a restaurant that’s been in this location since 1905, and walk inside. Yeah, it’s illegal. For everyone else. There’s something to be said for being from one of the original plantation families. It’s gotten me a lot of free passes, and a lot of ass kicking, depending on the crowd. Hattie Paris’ family is also one of the old Louisiana folk. Rumor has it the blood that flows through Hattie’s veins came directly from Marie Laveau, still considered today to be the greatest Voodoo Queen New Orleans has ever seen.
“Ignatius Beauchamp,” Hattie singsongs in her French Creole drawl when I enter. That sound is one of the most beautiful in the world. “I knew that was you causing trouble again with that thing parked right in front of my place.”
“Miss Hattie, I had to come see you.” It’s always good seeing Miss Hattie, even more so after the horrors of the past few days.
“Sit yourself down right there and let me fetch you something to eat.” Bossy. Always has been, and Hattie would woop your ass in a hot second if you pissed her off.
“Yes, ma’am.” I slide onto a stool at the counter.
Hattie is a tiny thing, still a beauty with flawless mocha skin, I couldn’t begin to guess her age. She’s a cross between Eartha Kitt with her sultry voice, and beautiful like Halle Berry. When I first found out what my dick could do, it was Hattie’s image I’d jerk off to. I swear she knew it too, because she’d call me in here just to beat my ass for shits and giggles. She’s still the sexiest woman I know.
My mama used to come to Miss Hattie to get her fortune read in the backroom of the restaurant. A lot of people came to Hattie for a lot of different things. I wasn’t supposed to know, and I didn’t, not at first. I’d sit on the floor with my back propped against the wall and wait for Mama to come out. The murmurings that floated from the backroom didn’t make a whole lot of sense to a young boy who just wanted to be outside playing and causing trouble. All I knew back then was that Miss Hattie made me feel kind of funny, and I kind of liked it. Later on, I thought I was going to marry her.
“You find your woman yet, Ignatius?” Hattie sets a cup and saucer in front of me and fills it with coffee.
The new criminal investigator from the crime scene with the striking blue eyes and caramel colored skin flashes in my mind and stirs my blood. The thoughts of what I could do to that curvy little body have been a welcome distraction since the gore we found at the fire.
“I’m waiting for you, Miss Hattie.” I give her a wink. Even at thirty years old, with her I still turn into that twelve-year-old boy who still hasn’t grown any facial hair.
“It’s not me you’re waiting for.” Her words sound like an old secret waiting to be told as she peers at me sideways.
I lean into the counter and pick up the cup with both hands, the thing getting swallowed up in my grip. “You know I love you, Miss Hattie.”
“I swear you get more incorrigible every year.” She shakes her head and grins.
I take a sip from the cup. “You wouldn’t have me any other way.”
“You are one of a kind, Ignatius Beauchamp.” There’s just something about Hattie that’s intoxicating. I’ve often wondered why she hasn’t married. Probably because there isn’t a man in all of New Orleans who could handle the likes of her. She leans an elbow on the counter and props her chin on it, her piercing gaze fixed on my face. “I heard there was another fire down in the Ninth Ward.”
My jaw tenses as flashes of the fire and the horror we found inside fill my head. “You know I can’t talk about it. Not until after the investigation is finished.”
She gives me a look that says Silly boy, as if she knows exactly what happened at the crime scene. “You don’t have to, Ignatius. You know Miss Hattie knows things.”
Like the fortune teller you are.
Imagining the criminal investigator wallowing around the evil of that horror, knowing it was tainting her with its filth makes something possessive inside me rage with the need to protect her from it. “No one should know those things.”
“You are right, Ignatius, some secrets should stay hidden.” There’s a look in Hattie’s eyes, something ancient, something that tells tales only whispered in the dark.
As I look into Hattie’s blue eyes, a coldness slips down my spine and makes the hairs rise on my skin. I swear she knows. She may not know exactly what was there, but I do believe somehow she knows. Because there’s something in the air in the city this Mardi Gras, as if the spirits have been summoned, and some of them are not pleased. If you’re from New Orleans, this is our way of life. We know we share the city and the bayou and the river itself with things we don’t want to see.
She closes her eyes for a long second and breathes deeply, pushing away whatever thoughts or secrets or whatever it is that a woman like her sees. Fixing her now clear vision on me again, she grins. “Some of Miss Hattie’s gumbo is exactly what you need.”
I scrub a hand down my face. That’s not what I need. Right now, being here is taking my mind off the hell I’ve been thrown into, and for the moment, it is exactly what I do need.
“Can I have some too, Tante Hattie?” comes a woman’s voice from behind me.
&nbs
p; I turn slightly to peer over my shoulder. Whoever the woman is, I don’t recognize her voice. She’s apparently Hattie’s niece because she referred to Hattie as her aunt.
Well, I’ll be damned. Color me surprised, look what the cat dragged in. The sweet little criminal investigator and, wouldn’t you know it, she’s Hattie’s niece. Of course she is.
“Sha bebe! When did you get here?” Hattie comes around the counter and folds her arms around her, embracing the young woman fondly.
The woman returns Hattie’s affection, it’s apparent they’re close. “Two days ago. I was called in for the fires.”
Stepping back, Hattie’s expression turns serious. “Terrible things be happening.” She turns to face me. “You must know Ignatius. He was one of the first responders. He’s one of our fine firemen.” She grins slyly. “Isn’t this a small world, two of my very favorite people with so much in common?”
I glance at Hattie from the corner of my eye. Because if I didn’t know any better, I’d swear she had something to do with this. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I greet the beauty, and extend my hand to her. “I’m Ignatius Beauchamp.”
She places her small hand in mine. “Pleasure, I’m Dominique Chavelle.” She’s even more enticing up close. With the same blood flowing through her veins as Hattie, it comes as no surprise. “I’m the criminal investigator working the crimes.”
“I know, I saw you at the scene.” Jesus Christ, can I sound anymore desperate?
A slow blush tinges her tanned cheeks a light pink, the same shade as her lips. Lips I should not be staring at. And I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about what I’d like to do with her mouth.
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