King Me

by Season Vining

  I slam the suitcase closed and sit on top of it. “Let’s not panic. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Laney, this is not a joke,” he says, throwing his arms up before lacing his fingers behind his head. The muscles of his biceps pull tight as his frustration grows.

  “I will not let them scare me, King. It’s just lines scratched into the floor, nothing else. That,” I say pointing to the symbol, “is nothing. It holds no power. It won’t harm me.”

  “It can and it will,” he argues, throwing himself down onto the edge of my bed. King leans over, his elbows resting on his knees and his head hung low.

  “Do you hear yourself? It means nothing!” I reach up and tug on the pendant Marie gave me. “It’s all some bullshit, only given power by fools who believe in it.”

  As soon as the words leave my lips, I want to pull them back in and swallow them down. King looks down, his face gives nothing away, while his hands ball into tight fists.

  “King,” I whisper, knowing that the damage is done.

  He turns and grabs his keys from the kitchen counter. The echoing slam of the door behind him shakes through my chest, freeing the words that are stuck inside.

  “I’m sorry.”

  _______________

  For a week, I stayed holed up in my apartment, searching through my reference materials and the internet for a way to get to the Bondye Saints. I push my bed back over the Legba symbol only because it reminds me of King and my epic fuck up.

  I find no more helpful information on Miles Duvernay and believe that he had not been a high key player in the secret Voodoo group. I can’t imagine that leaders of the group would do the tasks of kidnapping or transporting a hostage. I don’t see Cas often, mostly because I don’t leave the apartment, but when I do I try to appear indifferent and ignorant. She remains friendly and clueless as always.

  I don’t hear from King on Tuesday and by Wednesday, decide to keep pushing forward on my own. Sure, I could reach out to him and apologize, but fear keeps me from doing so. I’m a coward, too scared that I’ve ruined the only good thing to happen to me in a year. I can’t face the possibility of rejection. I’d rather stew in my misery of what could be than know for sure that it’s never going to be.

  I look up directions to Emma Green’s house and catch a cab on Canal Street to take me there. The ride over is quiet. I’m thankful the driver doesn’t feel the need to fill the silence. I watch the city slide by through the dirty windows and wonder where King is, and if he’s thinking of me.

  After paying the driver, he pulls away, and I stand on the broken sidewalk, staring at the blue and white shotgun house. It looks well-maintained. The small yard is dotted with toys, bikes, and a small plastic slide. I take a deep breath, hitch my bag up higher on my shoulder and push through the gate.

  My steps echo on the wooden porch, but the house is silent. Nervous energy kicks my pulse into overdrive and I shake out my hands before knocking. There’s nothing but the sound of a dog barking from somewhere down the street. I knock again. Finally, I hear soft footsteps from beyond the door, and it opens. A middle-age woman with blonde hair and blue eyes stares back at me. She is dressed in a simple t-shirt and jeans and looks great for her age.

  “If you’re selling something, I’m not buying,” she says, but her words are accompanied by a smile.

  “Oh, no. I’m not selling anything,” I say, looking down at my shoes and back to her face. “This is going to sound really strange and totally random, but are you the Emma Green that was kidnapped when you were five?”

  Her eyebrows shoot toward her hairline and she closes the door a few inches. I’m not even sure if she realizes she does it.

  “Yes,” she answers, dragging out the word.

  “My name is Delaney Mills,” I say. “I’m investigating the group that was responsible for your kidnapping and was wondering if you’d be willing to talk to me about what happened?”

  Emma shakes her head. “I don’t remember much, I was so young,” she says. “Plus, I don’t want anything to do with those people. I’ve lived a quiet life and I’d like to keep it that way.”

  She swings the door closed and just as it clicks into place, I yell, “But, they’re back!” I stand there, watching the door, waiting for her to make the right choice. After a minute, she does.

  The door swings back open and she looks me up and down. “Are you alone?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  Emma holds my gaze in challenge, when she’s satisfied, she checks up and down her street before motioning me inside. “Come in,” she says. “But no more shouting. I’ve got a toddler napping.”

  I follow her in, through a long narrow den and into the kitchen. Funny how people in South always want to talk around the table. Her home is clean and modern, with the obvious signs of children. There are crayon drawings stuck under magnets on the fridge, toys scattered around each room, and a high chair sits next to the table.

  “Would you like something to drink?” she says.

  “No, thank you.”

  Emma takes a seat across from me and folds her hands together on the tabletop. She blows her bangs from her eyes and looks at me expectantly.

  “You said they’re back? How?”

  “I came to New Orleans to do research on Voodoo for my dissertation. Just by talking to some of the local leaders, I unearthed this group and started researching them. The more I discover, the more questions I have. They’ve already attacked me and threatened me, so I know they’re up to something. No one is giving me straight answers.”

  She sighs. “Well, like I said, I was young. But I’ll tell you what I can.”

  “Anything would help,” I say. Pulling out my recorder, I place it on the table between us. “Do you mind?” Emma shakes her head. “So, you were taken from a St. John’s Eve ceremony, correct?”

  “Yes. Though I have to tell you, most of what I know isn’t actual memories anymore, just recounts of what I’ve been told.” I nod. “I was there with my grandmother. We got separated and the next thing I knew, I was being led into a stranger’s car. They told me my grandma was waiting for me. But, of course, that wasn’t true.” She pauses, her gaze dropping to her fidgeting hands. “They kept me in a warehouse for one week. I remember them being very nice and treating me well. But then I would cry and ask to go home and they would tell me that wasn’t possible.”

  “Do you remember how many people there were?”

  “Um, I only remember seeing two men at the warehouse.”

  “How did you escape?” I ask.

  Emma’s eyes glaze over and she stares out of the kitchen window. The neighbor’s clothes wave from a makeshift clothesline.

  “One night they told me they were taking me home. I remember being so happy—excited to see my dog, Waffles.” Emma chuckles. “Your priorities are different at that age, I guess. They drove me to some woods near Lake Pontchartrain. It was dark, and we walked so long that I got tired, and one of the men had to carry me the rest of the way.”

  “Where did you go?” I lean forward, resting my chin on my hand.

  “I don’t know. I just remember sitting on this giant tree stump and people forming a large circle around a fire. Someone started singing or praying. I don’t know, it wasn’t in English.”

  “Probably the Priye Ginen,” I say. “Like an opening prayer.”

  Emma nods. “I was so scared, I hid my eyes behind my hands most of the time.” She runs her hands through her hair and looks at me. “All around me were what looked like offerings. I’d seen stuff like that before. My grandmother raised me and she was a healer. There were flowers, alcohol, money, knives, even animals in cages.”

  A mumbling sound crackles through a baby monitor on the counter behind us. Emma glances at it and back to me. “When the singing stopped, the drums started. A few women started dancing. Someone read from a book. It was all so strange to me. Then, everything went quiet. All eyes were on me and I remember having a very bad feeling. Two o
f them started arguing and I took advantage of the distraction. Just took off running into the woods.”

  “Wow,” I say. “That was so brave.”

  A loud cry sounds through the monitor and her eyes dart to the hall. “Excuse me,” Emma says before leaving me alone at the table.

  I go over her story in my head, imagining going through something so terrifying at such a young age. From what she’s said, it definitely sounds like a ritual. But what were they wanting from the spirits and why did they need Emma?

  She returns, carrying a little girl that is a spitting image of her mother. The girl lays her head on Emma’s shoulder, blinking her big blue eyes at me.

  “Say hello, Olivia,” Emma says, but the toddler just stares silently. “She’s shy.”

  “She’s beautiful,” I say, tamping down the aching feelings of panic that pull at my chest. I take a deep breath and focus on Emma.

  “Thank you.” Emma runs her hand over Olivia’s hair and places a kiss on her head. “Anyway, one of the men did catch up to me, but I happened to stumble into a hobo camp on the bank of the lake. He tried to take me back, but a few of the homeless men confronted him.”

  “That’s lucky,” I say. “Who knows what they were going to do to you?”

  Emma shakes her head, biting down on her bottom lip. “I hate to imagine. Just as much as I hate to imagine them doing it again. It’s been so long, I can’t believe they’re back. Have you gone to the police?”

  I shake my head and turn the recorder off. “I don’t have anything solid to tell them,” I say. “I can’t identify the men who attacked me and I certainly can’t link them to the group. But I’m going to do everything in my power to find out what they’re up to. Thank you, so much, for talking to me. I’m sure it isn’t something you want to relive.”

  I pack up my bag and sling it over my shoulder. We both stand and I follow her to the door. “It’s okay,” Emma says. I step out onto her porch and pull my sunglasses down over my eyes. Emma holds Olivia on her hip and the door in her other hand. “St. John’s Eve is next week,” she says. “Be safe, Delaney.” The door closes between us with a soft click.

  _______________

  Without hearing from King, by Friday I am going out of my mind. I dial his number over and over, but never press the call button. Frustrated, I finally force myself to call him. My pulse soars and I hold my breath while it rings. I exhale in relief when his voicemail picks up. I don’t leave a message. I know that he is staying away because of my stupid mouth and hurtful words, but I can’t make myself leave a recorded apology. All afternoon, I wait for him to return my call, but it never happens. When night falls, I shut down my laptop and head out into the Quarter.

  Again, I find myself perched on an uncomfortable wooden barstool in the dark corner of a familiar establishment. I don’t even have the self-preservation to go somewhere new. Gable gives me a wide smile when he sees me, but delivers my drink without a word. The rum burns my empty stomach, but I tolerate it, knowing my buzz will come much quicker this way.

  As the numbing alcohol takes over, I feel a bit less burdened by the week’s events. An hour later though, I still can’t shake the lurking darkness edging its way back in on me. An older woman, in mom jeans and a hairstyle from twenty years ago pulls up next to me at the bar.

  “You ain’t from here, huh?” her rough voice asks in my direction. I shake my head, my eyes trained on the melting ice cubes in my empty glass. “Whatcha drinkin’?”

  “Sailor Jerry and Coke.”

  “Hey, Gable, a beer for me and another man chaser for my neighbor here!” She yells out before laughing at herself.

  “Man chaser?” I ask, finally lifting my gaze to her face.

  “Yep. The way you’re drowning yourself in that rum, I figure you’re chasing the memory of some man away. How’s that working for ya?”

  “It’s not working at all,” I answer.

  Her hand claps down hard on my shoulder, almost pushing me from the barstool and wanders off as she yells out, “Ha, it never does!”

  A fresh drink appears in front of me. Half of me wants to drain that poison, let the liquid burn my stomach, let it dull my demons even more. I want to feel the tap of the ice against my teeth as I empty the glass and hear the satisfying sound of a glass bottom hitting the wood bar. The other half of me wonders how long I can live like this—drowning my troubles in rum and hiding from the rest of the world.

  A few months ago, I would have known the answer to that question. But now, after knowing that there’s life out there for me, that there’s sex and passion and mystery and so much left to discover, I don’t know anything anymore. Valentine King has shown me a way out of my darkness and I’m elated and afraid that it leads to him.

  “You okay, beautiful?” Gable asks.

  “Don’t come over here hitting on me right now,” I say, leveling him with my gaze.

  Gable raises his hands in surrender. “Hey, I’m just checking on a friend. You look like you could use one.”

  I drop my chin to my chest and blow out a breath. When I raise my head, he’s still there. “Are we friends?” I ask. “Really?”

  “Sure,” he says. Gable leans on his elbows on the bar, putting him on my level. “I’m all ears if you need to talk.”

  I do need to talk. I want to tell him everything. I want to confess my past, my mistakes, my demons. I want to tell him that I’m falling for King and that I’m a dumbass who can’t keep anything right. I want to beg him to tell me how to fix it all, how to pay for my sins. And as his dark brown eyes hold mine, something in me—the rum or the pain—decides to talk.

  So, there in the dark corner of my favorite New Orleans bar, I tell this friend my darkest secret. I tell him how I lost the person I loved and in the same night, stole a child’s life. Two futures ended within hours. I tell him how, some days, the guilt is unbearable, but most days I power through because all that darkness and pain is just a part of me now. As these words spill out between us, I start to sober up. I see the look of pity that I loathe and decide I need to go before I say anything else.

  “I’m sorry,” is all he says as I leave Gable some cash and the full drink sweating on its paper napkin.

  When I turn down my street, I stop in my tracks. The bookstore’s lights are off, closed for the night. Two of the streetlights are out, causing complete blackness to cloak my stoop. I approach carefully, feeling the crunch of broken glass beneath my feet. It’s not a coincidence that the lights are out, they’ve been knocked out.

  Sobering instantly, my eyes search the dark, but I can’t see a thing. I move forward slowly, more glass breaking with each step. My eyes search up and down the block. I don’t find anything. My hand slides into my bag, in search of my phone. I’m still debating whether to dart up the stairs or flee. Where would I go?

  I try to convince myself that I am being paranoid. The lights could have been knocked out by teenagers using them as target practice. I square my shoulders and force myself forward. Dropping my phone into my pocket, I pull my keys from my bag and I flip them over through my fingers. Nervous energy makes my hands shake, so I rub my fingertips along the jagged metal edge of the apartment key.

  The street is strangely quiet in a city that is so full of life it’s usually bursting with sound. I check over my shoulder one more time only to find the street and sidewalk empty.

  When my foot hits the first step, a large hand wraps around my neck and another covers my mouth. I suck in a breath through the thick fingers pressed against my lips and let out a scream that is successfully muffled. Raising my hand, I slam my key into my capture’s head. He grunts, but his grip on me doesn’t loosen. When I try it again, another fist squeezes around mine and yanks the keys free. I hear them jingle as they hit the ground.

  I am dragged backward into the alley and pushed into the brick wall there. I struggle against powerful hands, but it is useless. Thick fingers curl tighter around my neck and panic takes over. My mind can onl
y silently scream in this fight. My lungs burn for air and my head swims, dotted patterns swirl before my eyes in the dark just before I pass out.

  Visions of King’s sly smile give way as consciousness scratches at my brain. Pain throbs in the back of my head and my throat is on fire. I roll over and realize the surface beneath me is hard and rough. I am not in bed. It’s so hot, the humidity makes my hair stick to my face and neck.

  Cracking my eyes open, I don’t find the familiar walls of my apartment. Instead, I’m in the narrow alley next to my building. I struggle to sit up, it’s then that the images and memories come rushing back in a painful flood. I jump to my feet, but fall back against the wall as my head spins. Stumbling out of the alley, I fight the dizziness to stay upright.

  The sky is still dark, with just a hint of the rising sun to the East. My mind works to piece together the bits of memory appearing every few seconds. It’s flashes of fear and helplessness that make my stomach churn. I crawl up the stairs as fast as my legs allow me, needing desperately to get inside the apartment. My door is wide open, light shining down like a beacon. Barring any sense of self-preservation, I push on.

  I peek my head in and find it empty. Tip-toeing through the space, I check the bathroom and closet, and even under my bed. When I’m satisfied that I’m alone, I prop a chair against the door handle and fall into bed.

  “Delaney.” I imagine King’s smooth voice pulling me from sleep. I smile, willing it to come again. “Laney, wake up.” My smile grows wider. Please don’t ever let me wake up.

  I feel a shake and my eyes pop open, all my senses in a frenzy. Sitting on my bed, like a cruel apparition, is Valentine King. A crease splits his worried brows and a frown pulls at his lips. I just wanted to run my fingers over those lines to make everything okay again. I’m sorry, my brain screams. I’m so sorry. But I’m a coward and remain quiet, taking in the way morning sunlight turns his flawless skin to gold.

  “What happened to you?” he asks. King’s eyes move over my body, followed by his hands, checking for damage. His fingers trace a pattern, light as a feather, around my neck while he frowns down at me.