King Me

by Season Vining

  Emma shifts her attention to us and pulls her lips inside her mouth, making them disappear. She nods once and looks away.

  “I was folding laundry in the back of the house. I had the monitor with me, but never heard a thing.”

  All of our eyes go to the destroyed monitor.

  “We were at the St. John’s Eve ceremony,” King says, his voice low and regretful. “We had no idea they’d come after you and your family again.”

  “That explains the outfits,” Emma says. I pull the white scarf from my head.

  “I’m so sorry,” I offer, squeezing her fingers and retreating my hand back to my side of the table.

  “The police say there is no evidence, nothing to lead them to where my baby girl is. But I know who took her. You do too. There’s gotta be some way to find her.” Emma wraps her arms around herself and leans back in her chair. “If you are right and they’re repeating what they did in ‘69, then we have seven days before that ceremony.”

  “Right,” I say. “Seven days.”

  “We can be assured that they don’t have the ritual book they need, so we may have longer. They need that book before they can do anything,” King says.

  “He’s right,” I offer. “We’ll do everything we can to find Olivia. I promise.”

  “I’m just so…” Emma trails off, her hands curl into fists. “Sad, but angry too. If I have to search every goddamn warehouse in this city, I will find her.”

  “Good,” I say. “Stay angry. We’ll put the word out and have everyone we know looking out for her too.”

  Emma stands and we both recognize that as an invitation to leave. I hug her once again on her porch and tell her to call me if she finds out anything. I promise to do the same.

  During the car ride back to King’s place, neither of us say a word. We enter the house, lock up and stand in the dark at the foot of his bed. The air is thick with regret, fear, failure, and hopelessness. His eyes shine in the small bit of light coming in through the window.

  There in the dark, we take turns peeling the clothes from each other’s bodies, leaving a trail of white into his bathroom. King lights a candle and fills his clawfoot bathtub. We both climb in, letting the water slosh over the edge of the tub. I lean back against his chest and we sit in silence, sharing each other’s space and breath until our fingertips wrinkle.

  Once dry, we fall into bed together, King curling around me as if his body could protect me from all the hurt and evil of the outside world.

  _______________

  In the morning, King makes bacon and grits while I scramble some eggs. The feeling between is still somber, but we are recharged and determined.

  “I’ll call Mamie and Mom after we eat and let them know what’s going on,” King says. “Marie too. The more people who know, the more eyes and ears we have out there.”

  We divide the food onto two plates and sit at his kitchen table to eat. I stare at my plate unmoving, spoon hovering over my plate.

  “What’s wrong?” King asks, biting off a piece of bacon.

  “What are grits exactly?” I ask.

  King smiles. Then that grows into a huge grin and within seconds he’s laughing. It’s as if the longer he thought about my question, the funnier it became.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask, poking at the pile of grits on my plate. “It looks like weird mush.”

  When he finally stops laughing, King’s face morphs into a serious expression, one eyebrow raised higher than the other.

  “Grits are just ground up corn,” he explains. “We boil it in water, add butter, salt and pepper and serve. I like to crumble up bacon in mine, but that’s special.”

  He watches me, waiting for me to try them. I put the tiniest speck of grit on my spoon and bring it to my lips.

  “This better be good,” I say.

  “With the amount you have on that spoon, it’s going to taste like air. Try again,” he says.

  I roll my eyes, but give him a smile. This time I fill my spoon and just go for it. It’s warm and a bit creamy, I taste the salt and pepper, the butter, the grits taste a little sweet.

  “Not bad,” I admit.

  “Such an adventurer,” King teases, returning his attention to his own breakfast. When he crumbles up bacon and mixes it into his grits, I copy him.

  “Mmm,” I moan. “This is even better.”

  “Bacon makes everything better, girl.”

  As King makes his phone calls, I get dressed. Most of my things have been moved to his place by now, and I honestly don’t know how he feels about me taking over his sanctuary. Pulling on a teal peasant blouse and jean shorts, I check my reflection in his full-length mirror. Twisting and turning to look at every angle, I wonder if I’ve gained weight since I’ve been here. The food is so good, I don’t see how anyone avoids it. I flip the radio on and shake my butt to the music, mouthing the lyrics in the mirror.

  King catches me and smacks my ass as he walks past. “Let’s roll, Hollaback Girl.”

  I laugh and slip into my sandals while he gets dressed.

  In the car, it seems like any other morning until we hear an Amber Alert announced on the radio for Olivia Green. My stomach tightens as King reaches over and squeezes my knee. We arrive at Bon Amis bookstore just as Cas is opening the doors. She gives us an enthusiastic wave as we park and head over.

  King helps her pull the sale carts out onto the sidewalk as her cat circles around my ankles.

  “Good morning, Couyon,” I greet, bending down to scratch behind his ears.

  “Well, I assume this visit ain’t social,” Cas says, waving us inside. We follow her to the back counter and Couyon comes along.

  “A girl was taken last night,” I blurt out.

  Cas sighs and moves her bifocals to the top of her head. “I heard.”

  “Not just any girl,” King says. “The daughter of the Emma Green, the woman who was kidnapped in ‘69.”

  Cas’s eyes widen and she leans back against a wall of books. “I hadn’t heard that part,” she says. “That’s just awful. Those chicken-hearted snakes. How’s she holding up?”

  “Not good,” I say, rolling a pen back and forth across the bookstore countertop.

  “Mrs. Duvernay, we came here because we know your husband was involved with holding Emma the first time around. Do you know anything about where they kept her?”

  “Well, that was years ago,” Cas says. “Who knows where they have the girl now?”

  “I know, but anything could help,” I beg.

  “I’m sorry,” Cas offers. “I didn’t know anything then. I don’t know anything now. But at least we know they can’t do anything without the book, right?”

  King sighs, his chin dropping to his chest. “Right.”

  “Who has the book now? Is it safe?” I ask.

  Cas leans on the counter, crossing her arms and resting on her elbows. “It’s in the safest place it could be,” she says.

  While we’ve been talking a few customers wander into the store. They browse the shelves and seem uninterested in us.

  “Where?” King asks.

  Cas looks around the store and places one finger over her lips, letting us know to be quiet. “You never know who could be listening,” she whispers. She takes a flyer from her counter, flips it over and writes the word “Papa” on it. King nods. Cas then drops the paper into a shredder behind the counter and I listen to the cutters whir, destroying the name.

  “Thanks, Cas,” I say with a wave as King drags me out of the store.

  “What do you say we grab some lunch and take a ride on the ferry again?” King says, opening the car door for me.

  “You think they’ll give us the book?” I ask, once inside.

  “No, but maybe we can take a look at it. See if we can get any info on the ritual. But it’s going to require some real sweet talking.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing you’re a professional at that,” I point out.

  King and I grab a quick lunch before p
ulling onto the ferry and parking. This time, we get out, walk to the front of the boat and lean against the rail. Once we’re moving, I lean into the wind and lift my face toward the sun. My hair whips around wildly as King presses against my back, his arms caging me against the rail. On this hot and humid day the wind is a welcome cool surprise. The river is its own being, another character of the South. It smells like earth and salt mixed with a distinct New Orleans flavor that you almost taste.

  “I’m sorry I got you into this,” I say, hoping my words aren’t lost in the wind.

  “I’m not,” King says. “At first this was something fun, a way to pass the time. But the second I saw you—all the dark and the beauty, your pain—I knew that you were sent here for me.”

  “All I’ve done is make your life dangerous and complicated,” I argue, turning to face him now.

  “Adventurous and enlightening,” he argues. I shake my head and look over his shoulder at all the people walking about, living their mundane lives full of ignorance and innocence. “I know things got crazy. I know this isn’t what you bargained for. But I’m all in, Laney. We’re going to stop the Bondye Saints. I know you’re scared, but we’re going to win.”

  I push the hair out of my face and meet King’s gaze. “I’m not scared anymore. I’m tired of being scared. Now, I’m pissed off. And these assholes have no idea what Delaney Mills can accomplish when she’s pissed off.”

  “Damn, girl. That was hot.” King grins and plants a searing kiss on my lips. “Also making a mental note to never piss you off.”

  The ferry horn blares and I jump. My hand flies to my chest to hold in my pounding heart. King nods toward the car and we climb back inside. When we leave the dock, we pass through the quiet neighborhoods and eventually end up back on dirt roads. A cloud of dust kicks up behind us as King’s car flies toward Papa Voodoo’s place.

  “Do we have a plan?” I ask, over the loud music in the car.

  He shakes his head. “Be our charming selves, right? Isn’t that always your plan?”

  “Yes, and it has worked out so well for us up until now…”

  We pass the rusty mailbox and turn down the dirt driveway. The grass is taller than last time, other than that, everything looks the same—at first.

  King is the first to notice something off, his gasp snapping my attention to the house. I finally see the three dead roosters nailed to each wooden porch post.

  “Shit,” he says. King slams on the brakes and throws the car in park. He jumps out, leaving his door open, running to the trunk. I climb out of the car just in time to see him grab a tire iron from the trunk and head toward the house.

  “Get back in the car and stay there, Laney.”

  I work hard to keep up with his quick, long strides through the tall grass. I don’t say a word, and I don’t follow instructions. I stop at the bottom of the steps and watch King silently creep up the porch. The front door is open, the screen door closed. King presses his face to the dirty screen, moving his head back and forth to see as much as possible. His long fingers readjust his grip on the iron as he toes open the screen door.

  I cringe when the rusty spring lets out a long creak as the door opens and King slips inside. I rush up the steps, the only thing between us is the screen door. “Stay here,” he says. “Please.”

  I nod and watch him disappear into the house. I try to stay put, but I seem to be unable to control myself. Pulling the door open just enough to reach inside, I curl my fist around the spring to keep it quiet. I slip inside and release the spring. Tip-toeing through the front room, I don’t find anything unusual except for an overturned chair. Staying quiet, I move through the kitchen and down a hallway, trying to listen for King. My pulse pounds and my shaking hands twitch at my sides, ready for anything.

  The old tiled bathroom is empty as my shadow moves across the space. I approach the door at the end of the hall, my chest heaving with breaths I try to keep quiet.

  “King,” I whisper. No response.

  Approaching the last door at the end of the hall, the floorboard squeaks under my foot. I freeze and hold my breath, squeezing my eyes shut.

  “Don’t come in here, Laney,” King says, his voice is lifeless and soft. “We’re alone.”

  I ignore him and push the door open to find King standing there, his makeshift weapon dropped to the floor. Papa and Mama Voodoo lie in their bed together, throats slit, blood soaking the blue blanket beneath them. I scream before slapping my hands over my mouth, holding in my horror and sobs.

  Flowers are placed around their bodies and candles are burnt down to their bases, as if these murders were purposeful and respectful. Tears blur my vision and I blink them away. My stomach lurches and I fight to keep my lunch down. King still stands unmoving, his silence is full of sorrow and I don’t know how to comfort him.

  “Do we call the police?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.

  King shakes his head. “I’ll call Mamie first.”

  I leave the room, unable to stomach the scene anymore. Stumbling, I hold myself up on the walls down the narrow hallway until I reach the kitchen. There, I fall into a chair and throw my face into my hands. I tell myself that this isn’t my fault, that this was inevitable. These people were on this path whether I came here for research or not. But there are tiny parts of my heart and my head that feel responsible.

  “She’s on her way,” King says, entering the kitchen. My shoulders jump and I sigh, scrubbing my face dry.

  King sits in a chair next to me. He seems to be eerily calm. Maybe he’s in shock. I’m not sure how to help. I scoot closer and wrap my arms around him. It’s awkward and uncomfortable, but it’s all I’ve got to give.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  He turns his head and places a kiss on my forehead. “I will be,” he says. “I’m trying to hold on to this grief, but there is a lot of anger pushing through.”

  “Anger is okay,” I say. “Anger is good. Hold on to it. I think we’re going to need it.”

  Thirty minutes later, King has searched the house from top to bottom with no sign of the ancient book. We can assume that the Bondye Saints have it now and that means trouble for everyone, especially little Olivia.

  Mamie and Hazel arrive at the house. All we get is a silent nod in greeting as Mamie heads straight to the back room. Hazel reaches out her arms and King stands to embrace her. It is an intimate moment of sorrow that I feel strange about witnessing.

  “Mamie will cleanse the bodies and free their spirits,” Hazel says. “They will not be trapped in this world.” She sits at the table and King follows. “The community will surely rally now with such a blatant act of disrespect and betrayal. Someone should call Brigitte.”

  “Brigitte?” King asks.

  Hazel nods, her hands twisting in her skirt. “Their daughter. I’m not sure if anyone knows where she is though. I’ll check with the rest of the family.”

  We sit in silence for what seems like an eternity. The air conditioning window unit is the only sound, its steady hum lulling me into a false peace. King’s hand holds mine, every now and then his fingers tighten and loosen their grip.

  “It is done,” Mamie says, joining us. Her footsteps are heavy in the house, no need to keep quiet I guess. “I found this,” she says handing over a piece of paper to Hazel. Hazel reads it, shakes her head and passes it to King. “It was clutched in Papa’s hand,” Mamie says.

  “I don’t recognize the name,” King says. “Is he naming his killer?”

  Mamie and Hazel shake their heads. “I don’t know,” they say in unison.

  King slides the crumpled paper over to me, the corner of it dotted with dried blood. Only one word is scrawled on it, the lines shaky and hurried. Camille.

  .

  17

  BY SUNDAY MORNING, WORD has spread throughout the community. People are outraged, worried about the future, and fearful. But not one person comes forward with information on the Bondye Saints.

  King explain
s that they will allow seven days of visiting and watching over the bodies of Papa and Mama Voodoo before making sure that their spirits are freed. It is against custom to be buried, so they will eventually share an above ground mausoleum.

  It’s noon and we haven’t left the house yet today. I lean my cheek on my hand and watch King work on my laptop. He’s been avoiding his grief, focusing on finding this Camille. He’s made call after call to everyone he knows asking about the mystery woman, but no one has any information. Internet searches have come up just as empty and I can feel the frustration building. The corded muscles of his neck pull tight as he stretches his arms wide and laces his hands together behind his head. The muscles of his arms bulge and flex, twisting as he moves and I am mesmerized.

  I rise from my chair and walk over to him, throwing one leg over his lap so that I am straddling him. He closes the laptop behind me and scrubs at his eyes with one hand. His other hand slides against the small of my back, pulling me closer.

  “Still no luck with the name?” I ask.

  “No. Absolutely nothing,” King answers. He sighs and leans his forehead against mine. “Someone has got to know something.”

  My hands dig into the taut muscles of his shoulders, massaging my way down his arms. He hums and closes his eyes.

  “You need a break,” I whisper, kissing his lips lightly.

  That kiss morphs into something deeper, something desperate and needy. He consumes me, nipping at my lips as I welcome him. A few seconds in and my body is burning with need. King’s hips shift under me and I know he feels the same way—both of us craving a way to just live in this moment, in each other, and forget the world around us.

  My lips leave his and I slide off his lap onto the floor. I push apart his knees and edge myself closer. As I unbuckle his belt and lower his zipper, I look up into King’s once tired eyes. The look there is pure desire, something I’ve come to recognize and absolutely adore from him.

  He’s already half hard when I free his cock from his jeans. I press my tongue to the base and slide it all the way up and over the tip before wrapping my lips around him. I adore the taste of this man’s skin.