by Terri Garey
“What if we open the coffin, and…” I didn’t even wanna finish the thought, much less the sentence, but I’d seen my share of zombie movies.
Joe stopped digging, leaning on the shovel. “If you’re having second thoughts, we can go home right now.”
Home. That’s what I was fighting for, wasn’t it? My parents had laughed, loved, and lived in that house, filled it to the brim with memories and affection. It was all I had left of them, and I wasn’t gonna give it up. There was also the small matter of soul-stealing, which I didn’t really understand and didn’t really want to. My soul was going nowhere but the Light, thank you.
“Keep digging.”
The whispering stopped, and I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or concerned. We’d dug a nice-sized hole by the time the drums started.
“What the hell is that?” Joe murmured.
Frozen mid-shovel, I gave him a hopeless look.
“We’re getting out of here.” Stabbing his shovel tip into the dirt, Joe snatched up the flashlight and grabbed me by an arm. He spun me in the direction of the parking lot.
But it was too late.
A woman stood behind a nearby tombstone, directly in our path. Behind her, far enough away to be only pinpoints in the darkness, at least six torches flickered. Shadows moved in the feeble light they cast. The drums went on, stronger now that we’d seen the woman. At her back, flanking her like an honor guard, were four men, dark shapes in the dimness.
Joe turned the flashlight fully on her face, but she never flinched. Black she was, black as midnight, skin shiny with sweat. She wore a snowy white kerchief like a turban, earrings of shell and feathers. I couldn’t help but think of Granny, though this woman was at least fifty years younger and a total stranger.
“Don’t stop now.” The woman smiled a broad smile, her teeth a slash of white in her face. “You’re not finished yet.”
“Who the hell are you?” Joe stepped in front of me. “What do you want?”
The look she gave him was calculating, impersonal, as if she were sizing him up for something. “Don’t make me hurt your girlfriend, white boy.
You in over your head.”
Silence, but for the drums. I took Joe’s hand, lacing my fingers through his, feeling the tension through the muscles of his arm. His protectiveness was comforting, but he couldn’t hope to win against four men. Who knew how many more were out there among the headstones? He couldn’t fight them all.
“Finish what you started, girl, and get the bitch dug up.”
If I needed any confirmation of the woman’s identity, that was it.
“Why, Felicia?”
One black eyebrow rose at my use of her name.
I had nothing to lose by stalling a little—maybe the cops would come by for another doughnut. “Why don’t you dig her up yourself?”
She stared, then gave me a sly smile.
“You think you know so much about the mysteries.” I really didn’t like this woman—she was bony and tough, all edges. “The body of an enemy is powerful gris-gris, honey, but you don’t wanna be the one making it mad.”
“Don’t wanna get your hands dirty, is that it?” Joe edged us both one step closer to the shovel.
Felicia ignored him, addressing her remarks to me. “Your friend Caprice thought she was better than me…liked to flaunt her store, her powers, and her man. I stole her man, I stole her powers, and the bitch won’t be so arrogant when I use her skin for a coin purse, now will she?”
She ignored my horrified gasp.
“I ain’t gonna let her rest, and I ain’t gonna let you or that old woman save her.”
My knees were knocking, but I wanted to keep Felicia talking. Every minute I stalled was a minute closer to closing time at the Dew Drop Inn.
I squeezed Joe’s hand so hard it hurt. “You shoved Caprice down the stairs, didn’t you?”
Felicia’s smile turned ugly. “Mojo told me you seen her duppy right after she died. If that’s so, you already know the answer to that.” She was enjoying this game of cat and mouse, playing with Joe and me both, while the drums kept pounding and my heart tripped double-time. “I watched you, seen you meet with that old mambo woman, and knew you was trouble. Every time I raised Caprice’s shade, I talked trash in her ears about you and the old woman both. Once she turned against her own, she put herself in my power. She’s been fightin’ me, but I always win.” Felicia wore a look of triumph. “After tonight, Caprice is damned to Hell and her power is mine.”
“Why would you do something like that?” The mind boggled.
Felicia laughed, cocking her head. “Power is money, honey.”
Of course. All of Caprice’s “back room” voodoo business would now fall to Felicia—true believers would be afraid to go anywhere else.
A sudden shout came from the darkness, then a gabble of voices. The drums stopped. They began again, raggedly finding their rhythm, but not before I’d seen a look of fear cross Felicia’s face.
Joe still held the flashlight, but he flicked it off. He whipped me around and gave me a shove. “Run,” he said, but I was afraid to leave him, afraid I’d never see him again. Instead of doing what he said, I latched onto his arm, clinging like a leech.
A chanting began, seeming to come from all around us, keeping time with the drums. Joe gave in and pulled me closer, and I cowered in his arms, heart pounding in my throat.
Someone was coming, wending their way through the headstones. A line of torches moved steadily in our direction, bobbing and swaying.
Felicia flicked her hand, and one of the men who was with her melted away into the darkness.
The torches came on without a pause.
“Let’s go,” Joe muttered, but it was too late.
Felicia gave a sudden gasp, shielding herself behind a tombstone. Alarmed murmurs came from the men behind her.
And no wonder, because the apparition who stepped from the shadows was frightening. If I hadn’t seen him before, I might’ve gasped, too, but as it was, I clutched Joe’s ribs so tight I’m sure he could barely breathe.
A black man, with a white face, in top hat and tuxedo. No hint of laughter this time, no crooked bow tie or leering looks. Torchlight flickered eerily over his features, bone-white cheeks and deeply pitted eyes—the perfect imitation of a well-dressed skeleton. He held a shovel, blade up. Gone was the clown who made the crowd laugh, and in his place was a walking corpse with the air of an undertaker. Other torches flickered behind him, giving him a backdrop of fire.
Joe shoved me behind him, freeing his hands. “Who the hell is that?” he whispered fiercely.
“Baron Samedi,” I hissed, clinging to his belt while peeking around his shoulders. “Lord of the dead.”
Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow you be mine.
The men with torches came to a stop a few yards away, then the skeleton man in front took a few steps forward. The chanting stopped, but the drums went on and on.
Baron Samedi ignored Joe and me completely, engaged in a stare-down with Felicia.
I almost felt sorry for her—the woman didn’t stand a chance. Even without the face powder and torches, the guy was damned scary.
“I haven’t called le Baron,” Felicia said, her voice quivering, but she drew herself up, one hand on the tombstone. “The veve has not been drawn, the sacrifice has not been made.”
The skeleton man stared, and the drums never faltered.
Felicia turned to the three men behind her and hissed something I didn’t understand, but the men glanced first at the Baron. The whites of their eyes gleamed as they shook their heads and stepped back, into the shadows. Of the first man, there was no sign.
Felicia was alone.
“I owe you nothing!” she spat, as if boldness would win the day. “But I give you these two.” She pointed at Joe and me, but never took her eyes off the skeleton man. “Two souls in exchange for one.”
Baron Samedi shook his head.
“I demand
it!” Felicia raised a hand, and in it gleamed a knife, much like the one I’d seen on my doorstep earlier. “If you don’t kill them, I will!” She sprang at us, but Joe was ready for her.
He grabbed her by both wrists and gave the one holding the knife a sudden twist. There was a sickening crack—the sound of bone snapping—and an agonized cry from Felicia. The knife fell to the ground, and Joe kicked it away, drawing another agonized shriek from Felicia.
Murmuring came from the dark knot of men who held the torches, sounding suspiciously like approval.
Silence from Baron Samedi.
Felicia stumbled back, cradling her wrist, and Joe let her go. Her face was contorted with pain. After a moment she slumped to her knees against a tombstone, the fight gone out of her.
“Please,” she whispered to the skeleton man. “I’ve served you well. I will make you an altar, bring you gifts of rum, fine cigars—let me prove myself to you, Old One.”
Whoever this guy was, Felicia was obviously convinced of his power. The drums, the flicker of torches, the shadowed headstones—it was an incredibly creepy moment.
Baron Samedi never took his eyes from her. He raised the shovel and pointed it in her direction.
Felicia gasped as though she’d been stabbed. “No.”
Two men detached themselves from the knot of torches and came forward, one on either side of Felicia. They were bare-chested, black skin gleaming in darkness. She didn’t resist as they pulled her to her feet. The look on her face made me turn away, just for a second.
When I looked back she was allowing herself to be led into the night, slumped between the two men.
Finally, Baron Samedi turned his gaze on Joe and me. I held on tight, having no idea what might happen next.
“Finish it,” the man said.
And just like that, I recognized him.
It was Albert.
Stunned, I couldn’t help but wonder if Felicia had been tricked into believing something that wasn’t true, or if I was the one who’d been deceived all along.
Albert’s living dead routine obviously went a lot deeper than I’d thought.
Tension left my body in a rush as he turned to go, and the others followed. His top hat bobbed through the graveyard, weirdly lit by the flickering flame of the torch, as he followed the voodoo woman to her fate.
Whatever that fate was, I was certain I didn’t want to know. Felicia was evil, and she was on her own.
Within a few moments the drums stopped and the torches disappeared down the slope of the hill.
“What the hell was all that about?” Joe whispered. We were still standing by the open grave, listening to our own breathing.
“That was the devil taking his due,” I murmured. “Let’s finish this and get out of here.”
In the end, there was no flesh-rotted, pus-dripping zombie waiting to pull me into her evil clutches.
There was only Caprice, silent and unmoving on her bed of white.
I was streaked with dirt, as was Joe. We were exhausted, having dug for at least two hours straight. Thank God the ground was still soft. The moon was right over our heads, evidently curious to see what we were doing.
“Caprice,” I whispered. She’d been cleaned up after the accident, obviously. Her cornrows lay neatly on her shoulders, reminding me of an Egyptian mask I’d seen in a museum once. No blood-covered face or twisted neck to haunt my dreams.
Joe wasn’t wasting any time. He bent and picked up the chains.
I helped lay them over Caprice’s chest and belly, careful not to touch her. Tears of grief pricked my lids, for this was the Caprice I remembered. Not the pure white dress she was wearing, for that wasn’t her style; the sash around her head is what got to me. The bright oranges and yellows were muted by the moonlight, but I knew that sash. I’d seen her wear it many times.
“You don’t have to stay in the dark, Caprice,” I said, not even sure where the words were coming from. “Granny Julep wouldn’t have wanted you there.” I tucked one end of the chain around her and stepped back.
Joe would’ve covered her up again, but I made him wait.
“Just a second.”
I was tempted to give Caprice the black beads Granny Julep always intended for her, but I had a feeling I might need them more than she did. Instead, I pulled out the gris-gris bag I wore beneath my shirt and untied the twine.
“Caprice, if you can hear me…” I dug into the mingled dirt and bones until my fingers found the tiny silver cross. I rubbed it clean against my tights and slipped it under her hand. “…you’re free now. Go into the Light—look for it. Look for the Light.”
Then we covered her up again and climbed out of the pit, me having to step on the coffin to reach Joe’s outstretched hands.
By the time the sun came up, we were sitting in a truck stop near the interstate, drinking coffee and watching the sky turn orange and pink. We were the zombies; filthy, exhausted, unspeaking. I had blisters on both hands.
A sheriff’s cruiser pulled up, and I gave Joe a tired smile.
“If he orders a bear claw, we’re outta here.”
CHAPTER 21
The afternoon sun filtered through the blinds, casting slanted shadows high on the wall. The room was dim, the bed soft and warm—waking up in my own home next to Joe was like being the marshmallow in a cup of hot chocolate.
“Hey, you.” Joe was awake already. His arm slid around my waist as he drew close, chest to back, and I felt his lips, warm on my shoulder. The clock beside the bed said it was almost five o’clock—we’d reclaimed the house that morning when we shared a shower, lingering only to wash before tumbling naked into bed.
“Mmmm.” I didn’t want to move, didn’t want to think. I was safe and warm and comfortable, and I didn’t want it to end.
“I have to go to work,” Joe murmured. “Graveyard shift this week.”
“Didn’t we just do that?” I mumbled, thinking fuzzily of the night just past.
Joe kissed my shoulder again, drawing his legs up beneath my thighs. The feel of him against my bottom made me smile.
“Always the funny girl,” Joe said softly, lips moving against the back of my neck. “Even when you’re sleepy.” He breathed deep of my hair, while I lay unmoving in his arms, still smiling. “Are you okay? Last night was pretty rough.”
I shifted beneath his arm, turning so we faced each other. His face was flushed with sleep, the bare skin of his shoulder warm beneath my fingers.
“It was awful,” I said. “I’m just going to treat it like a bad dream.”
Joe’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. “Dream? More like a nightmare.” His hand came up to stroke my hair away from my face, then came to rest on my hip. “But it’s over now.”
When I didn’t answer, he quirked an eyebrow and added, “Isn’t it?”
“I think so. I hope so. I don’t know.” I wished I could guarantee our troubles were over, but “trouble” seemed to be my name these days.
“You know—” I hesitated. “—this episode with Caprice may be over, but I still have the same problem.” I smiled, though it wasn’t funny. “In case you haven’t noticed, I seem to be flypaper for freaks. Particularly dead ones.”
Joe sighed, then rolled on his back to stretch. Cool air touched my skin where his had been, but only for a moment. He pulled me close again, guiding my head to his shoulder.
“So you think I should cut my losses, hm? Take my stethoscope and go back to the nice sane world of science and medicine…forget I ever met a strange girl named Nicki Styx, who died and came back to life with the amazing ability to see the dead. Is that it?”
Hearing it put so bluntly was an eye-opener. The guy would have to be crazy to get involved with me. I wasn’t “flypaper for freaks”—I was the freak.
Unexpected tears pricked my lids, and I was glad he couldn’t see them. Sounding like a total wimp, I said, “That’s pretty much it.”
Joe gave a rude snort, his hand sliding down to give me a shar
p smack on the ass.
“Hey!” I tried to rear up, but he wouldn’t let me, pulling me back down with an arm around my shoulder.
“That’s what you get for being stupid,” he said, definite satisfaction in his tone. “And if you don’t shut up I’ll do it again.”
I could’ve gotten mad—even smacked him back—but I didn’t do either. My butt was stinging and so was my pride, but not enough to make me prefer a cold bed to the warm spot beneath his arm.
Besides, if the guy was determined to stick it out, who was I to argue?
“Do it again,” I teased, “I kinda liked it.”
Not surprisingly, he did. I squealed and thrashed as he went straight to tickling my ribs, then I defended myself as best I could by gaining control where Joe was most vulnerable. Thirty naughty and playful minutes later I kissed him good-bye at the door, exhausted again, only this time pleasantly so.
Since my house smelled like cold garlic bread and I was starving, I went straight to the kitchen. And there, on the counter, was the envelope of photographs Joe had brought over the night before.
There weren’t very many…five or six, only one of Kelly in a formal pose. A high school picture, probably her senior year—she looked about seventeen.
There was definitely a resemblance, but almost everything about her was different from me. Where I’d worn my hair short and spiky, she’d worn hers long and straight. At sixteen, I’d dyed my hair black in true goth style, while Kelly’s was still the ordinary brown I used to see in the mirror. Not a touch of makeup, not even lip gloss, but smiling. She looked plain and wholesome—very “girl next door.”
Nothing like me.
I loved being bold with my hair and clothes, always had. I tried to imagine what I would look like if I’d chosen a more subdued look for myself, but I couldn’t. For one thing, I simply couldn’t imagine myself wearing sand-washed denim with blue and brown plaid.
With a sigh, I slid the pictures back into the envelope and pushed up the sleeves of my robe. The kitchen was a mess, and those dirty pots didn’t care how fashionable I was.