The Baker's Guide to Risky Rituals

by Kathryn Moon

Bell’s gaze was hard on her face, and she ignored his stare. What had he thought? That a small town wouldn’t start to come up with its own conclusion to the mystery of a funky ritual site in the woods, and the murder of two strangers?

  Legba hunkered down again, creaking like an old house, and gathered the pennies into gnarled fingers, clinking them with gentle tosses. He hummed, and the sound became a whine. Josie’s heart sank as he rose again, head shaking slowly side to side. His hand reached out to her chest and Josie swallowed and nodded, shooting Bell a warning look before he could speak.

  Legba’s palm landed on her sternum and then…

  —The tent rustled—again, for like the fiftieth freaking time—and she rolled into Jake’s chest. Raccoons or whatever. Except then the sound wasn’t a rustle at all, but a slice and tear and ripping. It was in her head as she slept, and waking took too long. There were knees digging into her back before she could even groan, and by the time she was ready to scream—

  —Jake scrambled, a weak and cracking cry of refusal breaking out of his throat as Danielle gave a wet gurgle, thrashing limbs at his side. Shit. He was shit. Shit! He slid out of the tear in the tent, hot piss running down his thigh. His feet weren’t awake, or he was too fucking terrified because he couldn’t get his legs up underneath him. The attacker was on him, heavy and solid, with a fist in his hair. Jake was—

  Josie gasped, and Bell’s fingers dug into her shoulders, drawing her back with a yank to his chest. She slapped her hand over her mouth to stifle her scream and gasped through her fingers, sucking down breaths and trying to banish the feeling of a warm, sticky blade against her throat.

  “They was scared. And then they was dead,” Legba said.

  Josie swallowed and nodded, ignoring the ache still lingering. She’d known before he showed her, knew it was a possibility, but it stung all the same. “I understand,” she said, words a little raspy. “Thank you, Papa Legba.”

  The campers hadn’t seen the killer.

  Bell’s grip tightened on her again, and then he released her. Legba’s gaze strayed over her shoulder, and his lips twitched with a smirk. The question of Josie’s mother burned in her chest but Legba had said ‘one.’ Asking another question would require a favor to the dead, and she wasn’t certain she was prepared to pay, especially after being slammed with those memories.

  Legba looked down at her, his stare just twin blazes of light underneath the deep shadow of the brim of his black straw hat. He grinned, and his skin creased and chipped like ash curling on a burning log.

  “Would yous like to know a secret, ma cher?”

  He offered it, which meant she was safe from any debt. Josie’s fingers brushed over her throat, and she nodded. “If you would like to share it, Papa, I sure would.”

  He bent at the waist, like a lordly gentleman, even though he was barely an inch taller than her. Bony fingers wrapped around her own in a gentle touch, and his pipe smoke curled around her shoulders in an acrid embrace. A paper dry cheek rested against Josie’s, and his voice in her ear was the scratch of bone on the silk lining of her own coffin.

  “She all right, cher. Not good, not bad. Somebody put an itch in dat woman’s feet, and she ain’t never gon’ stay still for you. But she all right.”

  Josie’s eyes drifted shut. She nodded and sighed. “Thank you, Papa.”

  A cold kiss drifted over her cheek. “Sing me out, Piti bean.”

  Josie nodded, and Bell slipped the tambourine back into her hand with a warm grip of his fingers around hers. She must have dropped it during the memory gift. With Papa Legba present, some of the words came back to her, the Creole songs Mémé loved to dance to. She found a sweeter, slower, funeral march rhythm, and Legba nodded in approval, packing the offerings she’d brought into a sack on his shoulder, leaving only the plate and candle and her carefully stitched vévé behind. He strolled out to her music, and Josie’s voice choked on the notes as salty tears squeezed their way out of the corners of her eyes, despite her efforts to hold them back.

  When the music was hollow, she gave a last rattle of the tambourine and fell still. All the energy washed right out of her with the ritual ended and Legba gone. Shit, she was exhausted. It was a shame she hadn’t brought extra brownies, ‘cause she could really use one right about now. She swayed in step and Bell caught her by the shoulder, his fingertips on her sweater. Josie blushed at the reminder of her witness. She hadn’t forgotten that he was there, more like she’d forgotten who he really was. She rolled her cheeks against her shoulders to wipe away the tears, and then turned to face him.

  “Well, it was worth a shot,” she said, shrugging up at the demon. Bell’s eyes were wide, and brow furrowed, his hands hovering around her arms like he was waiting for her to faint. She realized he hadn’t said a word since Legba had dismissed him. “You okay?”

  With that, Bell scoffed, hands dropping to his side as he spun away. “Let’s just get back.”

  Bell was not okay. His head was spinning with revelations he’d never been particularly interested in, and worse, he found himself keenly aware of the way Josie seemed about two steps from falling asleep or swooning. Even her color was off, paler than it should’ve been with the faint dusting of freckles on her nose standing out too vividly. He was…

  No. Not going there.

  If he had to deal with one confusing concept, let it be the spirit he’d just met.

  “You never heard of Vodou before?” Josie asked as she finished packing up her bag.

  Bell jammed his hands in his pockets as they started to walk. “Heard of it.” But he’d thought it was one of those things humans made up and played with when they wanted to rebel or feel dangerous, play at their own demonic impulses. He hadn’t really understood.

  He certainly hadn’t been fucking prepared to meet Legba—he refused to call the spirit Papa. Legba was an anomaly. Not a whiff of demon on him, but not the glowing saint he would’ve expected a witch like Josie to call on. The being was shadowy, and so heavy it made Bell’s skull hurt. It was like walking into a room with Morningstar glaring at him. Whatever or whoever Legba was, if he had been a demon, he would’ve outranked Bell by a startling distance.

  He didn’t like that. He didn’t like the way Legba had swamped Josie with the memories of the murdered humans either. She kept touching her throat like she was feeling for a scar.

  Angels, demons, men, and the Maker. That was the structure of the world Bell existed in, and now that structure was cracked open and new universes were falling in. He’d only had a taste. Worse, Legba had said Bell wasn’t the first demon he’d met, which meant that others knew and hadn’t fucking said anything, and that made him feel like a damn idiot.

  “It’s not totally unrelated, you know,” Josie said.

  Bell grunted, glancing down at her. “What do you mean?”

  “Vodou, the Loa—like Legba—they align with saints in Catholicism. Rosa, she’s familiar with the Orisha, and those are more mirrors of the Loa and the saints. There’s overlap,” Josie said. Which was all more than Bell was completely prepared to swallow in this moment. Her smile hitched. “Not to say I didn’t kind of freak out when I learned demons were real. I thought maybe I needed to call up Mémé and talk about converting.”

  “Who?” Legba had said that name too.

  “My grandmother. She’s a Vodou priestess. Makes regular calls to Papa Legba, although our family does more work with the Ghedes and… and this is all kind of a lot for you right now, isn’t it?”

  He wanted to say no, that he could fucking handle whatever she had to throw at him. But if that included more introductions to beings like Legba, then that would’ve been a lie.

  “A bit, yeah,” he said, and tried not to enjoy the beaming, humored smile she shared with him. “You’re from—”

  “New Orleans. N’awlins,” she said, slurring the two words into one curling sound, heavy with affection. “But my mom moved us out when I was a kid, and I’ve only been back for visits a cou
ple times since I graduated high school. Never had the money for the trip when I was studying, and then I had the business—which I can never fucking get away from.”

  Bell stared at her as the words spun out. She was so…open. Like they were… like he was just a human too, and she could talk to him the way she did with anyone else. Was he also supposed to share stories now? Did he tell her about the time he’d raised an army of dead in the lowlands outside of Damascus?

  “Normally they possess us,” Josie said, grabbing his attention back. She shifted her bag on her shoulder again like it was twice as heavy as before, and he remembered that she was tired. “The Loa. We call them and they ride us, communicate and work that way. I’ve never seen one appear that way before. I suppose he didn’t fancy you for his vessel.”

  Bell stiffened. “Is that why you brought me?”

  Josie’s smile was sly. “No. I thought he’d think you were amusing. Worth the trip.”

  And she was right. And Bell found he wasn’t even mad. “Your coven is something different though,” Bell said.

  Josie nodded, and her eyelids were heavy. He would have to keep an eye on her as they rode back to Sweet Pea. “June is…” she paused, and her gaze slid sideways to him, narrowed in study.

  “What?”

  “I’m trying to decide if this is information I shouldn’t be sharing.”

  Truth be told, Bell had forgotten about the line that was supposed to be separating them. It was getting foggy in his head.

  Josie shrugged and continued. “June is kind of in charge. Not totally but she and Imogen come from a long line of occultism and witchcraft, and I dunno even know what else. They’ve got an arsenal of information in their heads. And their style works for me. I don’t really wanna share the little I learned from Mémé with them, if it’s going to be adapted and diluted.”

  She had shared it with him. Bell decided not to point that out.

  “Anyway, it’s different up here. Like the Loa aren’t as present. I pay my respects because I do respect them, but there’s other energy in this—” Her speech broke off suddenly, and she stilled, eyes growing huge. “Do you hear that?” she whispered, barely audible.

  Bell froze, waiting in the silence, the woods holding its breath with them. He scanned the darkness, hunting for a shadow, and Josie’s shoulders were just starting to relax when they heard the sound. A twig cracked underfoot, echoing in the quiet, and Bell caught sight of a hooded figure stepping out from behind a tree. His hand reached out to grab Josie and caught on air as she took off like a rocket toward the sound, her bag dropped to the ground.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Bell called after her.

  It was wasted breath and time. The figure took off in a zig-zagging line through the trees, and there was enough light from the moon overhead for Josie to follow.

  “Hey! Hey stop, asshole!” Josie cried.

  “Josie!” Bell barked, and then he realized that he was an idiot, but so was she, and she was going to chase that person through the dark. And it wasn’t lost on him that someone running through the woods and refusing to answer when called was probably the murderer.

  His feet were planted in the ground, body coiled tighter than a spring. This wasn’t his problem. Josie wasn’t his problem. Never mind that he shouldn’t have come out here tonight with her, what compelling reason was there for him to wait for her? To worry about her?

  The crashing chaos of the two running through the woods grew fainter, and Bell tried to force himself to turn and find his way back to the bike. He could wait for Josie there or— No. He could just leave.

  Neither of those things happened when a sudden and short scream snapped through the air, before being immediately cut off. Bell was off the path before the silence returned, legs bending and warping into an animal lean for better speed. He damned himself for letting them get a head start, for trying to fool himself that he wouldn’t chase after her. Trees whipped past him as he raced, hearing heightened with growing ears, growl rising in his throat at the sound of bodies scuffling on the ground.

  His blood scorched through his veins as he hunted them down. If she was hurt… His gnarled feet stumbled over the thought. She was human. She was a witch.

  And then he saw them up ahead, tangled in briars. Josie was trying to claw herself up off the ground, but the attacker was on her back, hands around her throat, and she was barely managing to squeak, let alone breathe. What Josie was or was not ceased to matter.

  Bell roared, and the attacker scrambled off Josie, a foot kicking her in the ribs on their way up. Bell braced to leap, to tackle the fucker to the ground and rip their throat out, until he saw Josie sagging on the ground. She wasn’t catching her breath, her hands still scrambling on the ground in front of her as she fought for air. Something was bruised or broken, and there wasn’t enough time to catch the killer. Bell skidded to her side, flipping her on to her back. Josie whimpered, eyes wide with terror and tried to scuttle backwards into a briar, until Bell caught her by her shoulder.

  He drew his human shape back up and she settled, chest heaving and body shaking as he laid his palm gently over the top of her throat. It’d been a long time since he’d done any healing, and for a moment he wondered if he’d lost the skill in the Fall from Grace. Then warmth gathered on his palm, a ticklish feeling, and there was an audible pop. Josie sobbed and then gasped, arching as he steadied her. He turned and stared through the dark—searching for the attacker, ready to continue the chase—when a small hand wrapped around his wrist. Josie was collapsed in the undergrowth, breaths unsteady but deep, eyes blinking slowly up at the tops of the trees before drifting slowly in his direction.

  She was clinging to him, her hands covering his, and the weight of the touch pinned him in place. “You’ll be fine,” he said, too abrupt.

  She nodded and winced as she swallowed, breath rattling. “What was it?” Bell frowned at the question, and she asked again, “What kind of spirit was it? Demon?”

  Oh. He lifted his head and closed his eyes, trying to feel for anything unusual, but instead he found adrenaline and sweat and stress.

  “Human,” he said.

  Josie hummed and released his hands for a moment, and he suffered brief confusion about what to do with his own body in the moment, and then she was gripping his arms and pulling herself upright. Bell sat back on his heels when she was close enough to smell, the vanilla and fear mingling together into something unexpectedly unpleasant.

  “Are they gone?” He nodded to answer her, wondering if he should do something about the scratch in her voice. “Home then,” she said, eyes tracing skittishly through the dark.

  He lifted her up by her elbows, tried not to be too obvious as he brushed her clean, finding snags in the sweater she wore.

  “Shit,” she whispered, spotting one on her sleeve. “June is gonna kill me.”

  Bell snorted. Considering the act of killing Josie had almost taken place tonight without June’s interference, he wasn’t sure if that should be her main concern. “Ash can fix it,” he said instead, and then they both blinked at each other.

  Ashtaroth would not be fixing her sweater, because Bell would sure as fuck not be telling any of the others about anything that had happened tonight. And if Josie asked Ash herself, Bell would probably set him on fire.

  “Come on.” He pressed his hand to her back and urged her forward, back the way he’d come on a more direct route to the path. With every tripping step and anxious shiver that ran down her back, Bell found himself resisting the urge to scoop Josie up to his chest and sprint his way back to the motorcycle. Was it justified if it meant he would have her home and away from him sooner?

  “I didn’t know you could heal,” Josie said, voice whispering.

  Bell snorted. “How much do you really know about what demons are capable of?”

  She hummed. “I think I read something about… ‘unspeakable evils?’”

  He tried to hide his laugh, but her smile was glinting up at h
im out of the corner of his eye, so he must have failed. “We have the gifts of angels, put to wrong purpose.”

  She was quiet, and Bell released a silent sigh. Just get back to the bike, ride to Sweet Pea, leave her at the door, and try never to wonder any of the eighteen million flitting thoughts in his head ever again.

  “Always wrong purpose?” Josie asked.

  His heart clenched like a fist in his chest, and that was the last straw. Bell spun and bent, let his eyes glow with warning sparks, as he shoved his face into her view. What did it mean that he enjoyed the whiff of her fear when it was his actions that caused it, but not others’?

  “If you’re wondering if my position in Hell is a clerical error, no,” he growled, words grinding in his throat. “I earned my place, my rank.”

  Josie shuddered, eyes wide and lips parted, and Bell shoved down the lick of hunger in his stomach at her expression.

  “So it’s a kind of average?”

  He blinked at her. Josie’s lips twitched.

  This would be easier if I thought she was insane, he thought. Or stupid.

  “Alright,” she said with a sigh, turning and stumbling forward again, until Bell rushed to catch up with her before she tripped over a branch. “You’re evil, you’re rotten, you’re Mr. Bad News.”

  Bell grinned at the nickname. Maybe he could make that catch on in the Bowels when this was all over. “You’re delirious. Did they hit you over the head?”

  “Don’t think so,” Josie mumbled, reaching up and running her hand over her bare head. His hand reached out to follow the same path. He admitted only to himself that it was just so he knew what it felt like, the soft prickles of her hair on his human skin. When she leaned into the touch just a fraction, he dropped his hand back to his side.

  Josie picked her bag up off the ground when they reached the path, and they walked the rest of the way in silence. When they made it to the bike, Bell fought a brief battle with himself until he saw Josie’s eyes drooping shut. He perched on the back of his seat, arms plenty long enough to reach the handles.