Druid Mystic: A New Adult Urban Fantasy Novel (The Colin McCool Paranormal Suspense Series Book 10)

by M. D. Massey

  Moments later, the door at the end of the hallway opened ahead of me and bright light spilled forth, causing me to shield my eyes. I’d expected an attack, but all was quiet within. Muscles taut with nervous tension, I scanned up and down the hallway, waiting for the ambush to commence. Just as I was about to blast the room with a fireball, a cultured, authoritative voice spoke from somewhere above me.

  “I’d prefer it if you didn’t burn down my coffee shop. It’s a recent acquisition and it’s currently uninsured.”

  Knowing he could hear my voice from a block away, I dropped my silence spell before replying in a conversational tone. “Saint Germain. It’s been a while.”

  “Indeed. Believe me when I say there’s no need to dissemble—I know exactly why you’re here.”

  “And why might that be?” I asked, edging forward to peek around the door. I took my time slicing the pie as I cleared the room. It was empty save for some cardboard boxes, an old-school tape recorder, and Clara’s jacket, which lay in the middle of the concrete floor.

  “Come now, druid. I’ve already spoken with Clara, and I know you’ve heard about my recent—indiscretions. A man possessed of such robust moral convictions simply couldn’t let such atrocities stand.”

  Creeping back down the hallway, I kept an eye on those locked doors as I passed each one. “You know me too well, Jacques, but it seems I hardly know you at all.”

  Saint Germain gave a short, melancholy sigh. Since vampires didn’t breathe, laughing and sighing was something they did when they wanted to appear human. They might also do it to convey emotions nonverbally, although that was rare. Everything old vamps did was calculated and intentional, and since I already knew he was a vamp, it was clearly an expression of regret. Whether that regret was sincere remained to be seen. Based on my past experiences with vamps, I had my doubts.

  “I know you’re here to kill me, or at the very least to depose me. But before you act in haste, please hear me out.”

  By this time I’d climbed the stairs, only to confirm the trap door had been locked tight. Hoping to unlatch the lock with a cantrip, I checked it in the magical spectrum and found an anti-magic ward glowing on its underside. It had been etched into the metal and painted over, which was why I hadn’t noticed it on my way down.

  “It appears I don’t have a choice,” I said as I searched the basement for another exit.

  “My apologies for the deception. I anticipated your eventual arrival and prepared for it accordingly. That it was Clara who brought you here was a happy accident, however. She came straight back to me, of course, to warn me of your intentions.”

  “And you somehow spotted the tracking spell I put on her.”

  “I smelled it, actually. It wasn’t difficult to figure out how that seed got buried inside her jacket sleeve.”

  I’d never considered that my tracking seeds would be detectable by scent, and it was something I’d need to address before I used the spell again. “Okay, so you knew I was coming and you sussed out how I intended to find you. If you already figured all that out, then why haven’t you sent a vampyri hit squad down here to finish me off?”

  “Isn’t the answer apparent? I need your help.”

  “You need my—seriously?” I said, pausing in my search for an escape. “If everything I’ve heard about you is true, what makes you think I’ll help you?”

  “Because we share a common affliction. Well, not the same, certainly—but you can at least sympathize with my plight.”

  “Uh, nope. I don’t slaughter people for sport,” I said, heading for the first locked door in the hall.

  “Ah, but you have killed others when you weren’t quite yourself, have you not? One of those people was quite close to you, as I understand.”

  That gave me pause. “There was only one. And yes, she meant the world to me. But that doesn’t make me a monster.”

  “So you’d forgive yourself for such a lapse in self-control, but not another? That’s hardly what I’d expect from you, druid.”

  A closer examination of those locked doors revealed they were warded against magical tampering as well. Shit.

  I tossed my hands in the air with a loud groan of frustration. “Eventually I’m going to bust out of here, but something tells me that if I listen to your sob story you’ll let me out without a fuss.”

  “Just so.”

  “Fine, I’m listening.” I took a seat atop one of the stainless-steel tables and began rummaging around in my Bag for an energy bar. “Shoot.”

  “I’m a primary, druid. One of the original vampires.”

  That threw me for a loop. Primaries were powerful as hell. If it were true, it made me wonder why he wasn’t on the Vampyri Council. “No shit? Then I guess I ought to feel pretty special about that time I kicked your ass.”

  “I’m much weaker when I’m in control of my faculties. You would not want to face me when the other part of me takes over.”

  I tore the wrapper off a granola bar and took a bite, spitting crumbs as I spoke. “So, how does being a primary excuse all the horrible shit you’ve been doing?”

  “Allow me to explain. As a primary, I was not turned by the vyrus. Instead, I exchanged my humanity for power in another way.”

  An incredulous laugh escaped my lips. “Holy shit, Jacques—you mean to tell me you let yourself be taken by a vampiric spirit?”

  “More than two-and-a-half millennia ago, in fact.”

  “Tsk, tsk,” I said as I took another bite. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that conjuring major entities is a rigged game?”

  The vampire gave a short, bitter laugh. “If someone had, I would not have listened.”

  “There’s something I don’t get,” I said as I stuffed the last piece of granola bar in my mouth. “I thought that when a primary took over a human body, the host’s identity was destroyed. How is it that you’re still you?”

  “Allow me to explain. Normally when a primary takes over a human host, it is a hostile, involuntary takeover and the host’s id and ego are crushed under the weight of the spirit’s mental dominance. But remember, I conjured the spirit myself. Thus, I’ve fought it for control from day one. At first it was a desperate battle, and its evil influence dominated my personality for centuries. But through the use of alchemy and strict mental discipline, I learned to keep the spirit at bay. Alas, that solution is no longer viable.”

  I rubbed the stubble on my chin as I considered what he was telling me. “Huh. So, in other words, the spirit has developed an immunity to the stuff you were taking to keep it locked up.”

  “Not quite. The formulae I devised were designed to sharpen my mind and bolster my will so I could fight off the spirit’s influence and maintain control. In the past when the spirit became dominant, I would wrest control back and increase my dose. But, of late, that approach has faltered. Now, I’m only barely keeping it constrained.”

  “So the spirit has gotten stronger. And you want my help in finding something that will allow you to keep that thing down, hopefully for good.”

  “Precisely. I am not a monster, druid, no matter what they say about me.”

  “I believe ‘The Butcher’ is what they’re calling you these days.”

  “As I’m aware,” he replied. “Sadly, it is a fitting title.”

  The vampire remained silent, so I grabbed a water bottle from my Bag and took a swig.

  “Alrighty then—now I understand your problem, but I’m still not convinced.” I tapped the bottle cap on the metal surface of the table as I considered the situation. “Tell me, Jacques—why should I help you when I could just kill you and be done with it?”

  “You owe me, do you not? I did help you deal with Remy, after all.”

  “Yes, but isn’t that what the Vampyri Council sent you here to do in the first place? Some would say our alliance was just a means to an end.”

  “That’s true,” he said in a quiet voice. “But you of all people understand what it’s like to be a helpless p
assenger locked inside your own mind. You know how it feels to be an impotent bystander, cursed to witness every evil act your dominant personality commits.” His voice became a desperate whisper as he continued. “It is a horrible thing to be a prisoner inside your own mind. And for that reason alone, I ask you to have pity on me, and to repay the debt I’m owed.”

  Well, fuck.

  I sat there chewing my lip, thinking about where I’d be if I hadn’t had help learning to control my Hyde-side. Stark raving mad, most likely—and a danger to everyone and everything I held dear. Although I couldn’t excuse Saint Germain for what he’d done, I couldn’t exactly blame him for it either. At least, not unless I wanted to be the biggest hypocrite on the planet.

  “Why me?” I said. “Why not ask one of your vampire friends to help?”

  “A fair question. If there is one thing that is forbidden among our kind, it is to unmake another vampire. And in the end, that may be exactly what is required to free me from my self-imposed curse.”

  “Damn. You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?”

  “Unto death, if need be.”

  Slamming the water bottle on the table, I gave a long, frustrated growl. “Fine. What do you need me to do?”

  The old vampire sighed with relief. “I have prepared a special container that will hold me safely, even after I lose control again. My plan is to voluntarily restrain myself until you find me a cure.”

  “And how am I supposed to do that?”

  “If anyone can help me find an answer to my predicament, a druid can. I am quite confident that, within time, you will discover the means to help me.”

  “Uh-huh, sure. I’ll just reach into my old druid bag and pull a cure out of my—” I stopped before I said something I’d regret. “Anyway, it might take me a while to do this, and I can’t have you running around slaughtering innocent people in the meantime. So, you’ll need to lock yourself up until I figure out a way to get you back to your old self. Okay?”

  “Not yet,” he replied. “There are… complications.”

  “Of course there are,” I said, running a hand across my face.

  “Although I’d like nothing more than to lock myself away and await your mercy—however that may come—there are certain elements in the local coven who will not allow that to happen. These are the more radical members of the New Orleans vampire population, a sizable force in their own right. They long for a return to the old ways, when we hunted humans with abandon.”

  “I might’ve known. Should I assume there’s another faction who just wants to coexist with humans in relative peace? And that the two factions are at odds over the future of the coven?”

  “That would be an accurate, if overly-simplified, assessment of the situation.”

  “Did anyone bother to tell them how cliché that is?” I asked, being perfectly serious.

  The old vampire laughed. “We vampires aren’t known for being the most self-aware species in the World Beneath.”

  “So I’ve noticed. Well then, what’s the plan?”

  “This is where it gets difficult. Once I lock myself away, it won’t be long before the radicals find me. Although they may initially have difficulty releasing me, eventually, they will. Thus, I’ll need you to spirit me away before that can happen—and to keep me hidden from the coven until this task is complete.”

  “Ooh-kay. So, how many of the coven know you’re trying to be a kinder, gentler vampire?”

  “Only a few. Now Clara, for one. And my inner circle, as I’ve had to make arrangements to conceal my absence for as long as possible.”

  “Can you trust them?”

  “No. I am not their maker. And they are vampires, after all. Intrigue and deceit are to be expected of any of my kind who make it past their first few decades of undeath. Bloodkin are ever hungry for power.”

  “Great,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Tell me, Jacques, what happens when daddy vampire is no longer around to keep the kids from squabbling?”

  “Make no mistake—despite my best efforts, it’ll be outright war. Eventually, the Council will send someone in to take over if a clear leader does not emerge. However, that could be years from now.”

  “And in the meantime, people will die.”

  “Many, many people, I’m afraid. Less than the number that would perish by my hands if we did nothing, but it will still be a blood bath. Which is why you must hurry to find a cure for my affliction.”

  “Nothing’s ever easy, is it?” I said, rubbing my temples in hopes of forestalling the headache I felt coming on. “Alright, when do we start?”

  10

  Before we parted ways Saint Germain gave me directions to a dead drop. In twenty-four hours, he’d leave instructions there regarding where I should find him after his preparations were complete. That meant I had a whole day to kill—or rather, an entire day to lay low and avoid creating complications. But I’d never been good at staying out of trouble. Besides, I needed to see if Saint Germain’s story checked out.

  I couldn’t call Luther or any of my other normal contacts, because it was a given that Aenghus and his cronies were waiting for just such a fuck-up. Of course, I fully intended to run every sordid detail by Finnegas, but the old man wasn’t exactly in the loop when it came to vampire affairs. However, there was one person I knew who’d had her finger on the pulse of New Orleans for centuries—Maman Brigitte.

  The only problem was, she’d been miffed with me ever since my semi-disastrous date with her granddaughter, Janice. I was supposed to have taken the girl to a Voodoo Ball, but instead we ended up chasing a revenant and tangling with Mètminwi, a Haitian boogeyman and minor deity. It all turned out fine in the end, but apparently the old broad was pissed at me for placing Janice in danger.

  Was that actually the case? Not really. Mètminwi had just been trying to get Maman Brigitte’s attention, and he never intended Janice any harm. And it’s not like I twisted Janice’s arm to make her go after that rev. She did that all on her own, and hell if I was going to tell her to stay at home like a good little voodoo priestess while I handled it. If I had, I’d probably have woken up the next day with boils all over me, or erectile dysfunction, or some such.

  Damned if you do, and damned if you don’t. Story of my life.

  It was almost light when I left the café. I couldn’t go to Maman Brigitte’s empty-handed. I headed over to Café du Monde for a breakfast of caffeine, refined carbs, and sugar, then went to find myself a black rooster and some pepper-infused rum. The rum was easy, since Janice had told me where to get it the last time. As for the rooster, it was Craigslist and Uber to the rescue—although I did have to give my driver a generous tip for bringing a live animal inside his car.

  Three hours later, I was standing in front of a pale-yellow two-story on Prytania in the Garden District, scratched and bleeding with a bottle of rum in one hand and an irate rooster’s neck in the other. I’d tried to hold the yardbird under my arm, but the foul-tempered little shit kept pecking at me. Plus, they hadn’t clipped his spurs—a nasty surprise.

  I’d almost been tempted to toss him inside my Bag, but I’d never put a living thing in there so I had no idea what would happen. With my luck I’d lose him, the rooster would stumble across Jack’s magic beans or a magic growth serum, and then I’d have a fifty-foot tall cockatrice with a churlish disposition running around inside my Craneskin Bag. No thanks.

  Of course, I could’ve just gotten inside the rooster’s head to calm him down. As it turns out, it’s kind of hard to enter a druid trance when a psychopathic rooster is trying its best to bleed you out. Hopefully the driver would find a way to get the bloodstains out of his seats. Meanwhile, I had an irate Celtic-slash-Voodoo goddess to deal with.

  Here goes nothing.

  I took a deep breath, then I opened the gate and headed up her front walk. Three steps later, I was standing in a candle-lit basement looking at a voodoo altar across a small summoning circle. The place looked more industri
al than residential, with a concrete floor and fifteen-foot columns that supported a high concrete ceiling overhead. The room was slightly dusty, but not unkempt, and it smelled of burnt herbs, old withered flowers, alcohol, and dried animal blood.

  A slightly husky, commanding female voice with a mild, lilting island accent spoke up behind me. “Set dem stuff down, boy, before that rooster guts you.”

  I did as she asked, remaining silent until I knew what she was about. The rooster wisely ran off to some dark corner of the temple. As for me, I did not have that option.

  “Not safe to come to me house. Or did you not know Aenghus’ spies are everywhere? Don’t worry, no one saw you. But I took you to one of me priestess’ temples just the same. Ain’t nobody gonna’ find your pale little ginger ass here.”

  I slowly turned to face her as she emerged from the shadows. The goddess wore a body-hugging V-neck dress with a paisley and peacock feather print that ran across the shoulders and down the front to the knee-length hem. The dress accentuated her every curve, and the plunging neckline put her ample bosom on center stage. Her hair was pulled back and wrapped inside a black, purple, and gold turban-style head wrap that matched her dress. I respectfully kept my eyes on hers as I bobbed my head in greeting.

  “Maman Brigitte, a pleasure as always.”

  She’d been stalking toward me with sinuous grace, but at that she stopped mid-stride, feet set shoulder-width apart with her neatly manicured hands on her hips. The polished stone and wood bangles she wore clacked together as she cocked her hips indignantly and glared at me beneath a furrowed brow.

  “I come at you lookin’ like this, tits and ass on full display, an’ you have the nerve to keep your gaze at eye-level? You already know I’m not pleased with you, boy. Can you not even be bothered to offer a bit of fuckin’ flattery to smooth the way?”

  “Please, forgive me. Of course I noticed your stunning figure. How could I not when you’re wrapped in a dress like that?” I winked and flashed the most rakish grin I could muster. “But please understand, it’s no longer considered acceptable in human society for a man to remark on a woman’s body or manner of dress—no matter how beautiful he finds her to be.”