by K.N. Lee
“Forgive him, Eliza. He is just nervous. It’s his first time too.” She offered a reassuring smile before she snapped a fiery gaze to someone who stood behind me. “She’ll need to be washed again. You’ve tainted her.”
I stretched my stiff back, and Camille helped me to my feet. Damn it, I’m so sore! I had dealt with the pain that came with the touch of others my entire life, but it had never been this harsh before. My body was hurting as if I had gone ten rounds with a professional boxer, and it took all my energy to turn and face my assailant.
My jaw dropped at the rugged man that pillared over me. My five-feet-nothing frame shrank even smaller in comparison to Samuel’s easily six-feet-five, tanned, muscular mountain of a body. He wore tight-fitting black pants with a matching black silk shirt held together by only the two bottom buttons, revealing just a glimpse of his perfectly toned chest.
My breathing quickened while I watched him put on a pair of black gloves. His face was the strongest example of masculine, and his bright green eyes pierced though my soul so deeply I had to force myself to look away. The way he looked at me, I swore he could read the X-rated thoughts involuntarily swimming through my mind.
“Why do I need to be cleaned?” I looked to Camille for an explanation.
“You cannot commune with the Almighty with anything less than complete purity.”
“I don’t understand. Who is the Almighty?”
“Damballah, silly! He is waiting to see you!” For only a moment her youth peeked out from behind her shadowy rouse of authority, but she quickly remembered herself.
“Samuel,” she commanded, “take Eliza to the hounfour. Bring the shroud and dress her once she is again proper.”
I glanced sheepishly at Samuel before protesting. “I can dress myself.”
“No,” she insisted. “Your hands cannot touch the ceremonial clothing. He will not hurt you, honestly.”
I didn’t have any time to further object before Samuel lifted my unclothed body into his arms and cradled me, carrying me into a nearby crypt. A man followed us with a torch, grinning from ear to ear; he was either amused or excited, I couldn’t tell which. Once we were inside he set the light source into a sconce and left us alone.
The interior of the small building was even creepier than the outside. Maybe it was just the light from the flames flickering off the walls, but in the corner of my eye there were dark shadows dancing about the room. They disappeared when I turned to find them, so I dismissed the suspicion. The concrete walls were covered in cobwebs and when he set me down onto a stone bench, an imaginary sensation of insects crawling over my body took over. I shivered.
On the far wall were various works of art carved into the stone. I leaned in closer to one to examine the intricate depiction of a woman dressed decoratively with something illuminating from her hands as she stood over a fallen child. Above this detailed carving was written only one word: Laveau.
Samuel walked to the center of the crypt, where there was a well of water in place of what I imagined to be the place where a coffin should have rested. He removed his glove from one hand and dipped his fingers into the well. When he looked up at me an almost boyish smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“It’s still warm from earlier. Come sit next to me.”
His gaze pulled me to my feet, and I stood without thought of resisting. He held out his gloved hand. I gave him mine, locked into his trance-summoning gaze. Even through his glove a buzz of energy seeped through the fabric.
“Let me know if I hurt you,” he said gently.
He took my arm and washed it with a wet cloth separating his unsheathed hand from my skin. Thinking back to the excruciating pain that came when he’d touched me the first time, I instinctively jerked away.
He must have a blackened soul. Only a blackened soul could explain the severity of the reaction his contact caused.
“I can wash myself,” I snapped without meaning to sound so harsh.
“Of course you can.” He looked at me like a wounded lamb with sad eyes and a deep frown.
“I’m sorry. It’s just a little embarrassing,” I explained.
“It’s just part of the ritual, Eliza. There is nothing to be embarrassed of. It is the highest honor a priestess can have to commune with Damballah.” I could tell by his expression that what he’d said was meant to be comforting. Damballah was clearly a source of great peace for him and the others.
“Will it dishonor your tradition if I wash myself?”
“Technically, it would just be a break in tradition, I think, but we can keep it between us. I will have to dress you though. That is an imperative part of the ritual.”
I nodded in agreement and took the damp cloth from him.
He watched me intently as I scrubbed my arms and neck. I was mildly disappointed when he respectfully looked away once I reached my breasts, but I was also relieved.
This could easily have been the opening scene to a bad porno film, and I was a little peeved at myself knowing I wouldn’t have been able to resist his advances if it had gone that direction—he was a stranger for crying out loud!
I quickly finished my thorough rinse in silence and stood to be clothed, making no effort to hide the humiliation on my face. Samuel chuckled as he removed the one remaining glove from his hand.
“I’m sorry it’s such a displeasure to expose yourself to me,” he teased.
“It might make me more comfortable if you were exposed too.” I slapped my hand over my mouth and let out an explosive laugh. “I’m so sorry!”
He shook his head in amusement, then lifted the dress over my head and brought it down my body, being thoughtful not to touch me directly.
“You only meant to think it.”
“How did you know what I was going to say?”
“It seemed obvious.” He shrugged.
I wiggled into the white, form-fitting, floor-length dress, waiting for a reaction. “Well, it’s a little Marilyn Monroe for my taste,” I said when I got none.
“Marilyn Monroe was a beautiful woman.” He leaned his face close to mine and smiled. “But she doesn’t even begin to compare to you, Eliza.”
My knees went weak, and I blushed at the compliment. Usually I would come back with a sarcastic brush-off when a man said such things, but coming from him I almost believed it. I brought my hands onto his chest, leaning into him as I closed my eyes to drink in the feeling of warm energy escaping through his shirt.
I raised my gaze to meet his, and he lowered his lips, stopping just short of mine. My heartbeat skipped at the static almost visible between our bodies. I ached to reach up and pull his onto lips to mine.
“It is quite fitting,” he whispered.
“What is?”
“The light and the dark.”
“What?”
“The angel and the demon. Together they should create balance, don’t you think?”
“Hmm. And which one am I?” I asked, trying to sound seductive.
“You’re the devil’s bewitching weakness,” he breathed as he brought his mouth down hard onto mine.
I winced, expecting to feel pain, but instead I was greeted with a delightful surge of blissful, exhilarating vigor. I groaned as I allowed myself to relax into his urgency. He backed me into the wall and tangled his hand into my hair. He used my strands to pull my head back and expose my nape, which he devoured with his kiss.
“What the hell are you doing?” Camille shrieked from the doorway.
Samuel released me and stiffened as if the intrusion made him decide our encounter was a mistake.
“I sent you in here to cleanse her. Not to defile her in the most literal sense! You couldn’t restrain yourself for ten minutes, Samuel?”
“You’re right,” he admitted when he faced her. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“You should be ashamed of yourself!”
“Excuse me,” I shouted, feeling an unwarranted sense of protectiveness for the man. “I was a will
ing party to this little transaction. He did not defile me!”
Camille sighed and her face regained the deceiving, sweet smile I had already become familiar with.
“Eliza, you don’t understand. Damballah cannot communicate with you—”
“If I’m anything less than pure,” I interrupted. “Anyway, I don’t even know who Damballah is. Why should I care if he will or won’t speak with me?”
Both Samuel and Camille dropped their jaws in shock.
“Eliza,” Samuel said, “he is the only one that can show you.”
“Show me what?”
“The answers you seek.”
I had still had no idea what they were talking about, but clearly my attempt to make contact with their friend was important to them. I could tell Camille no, but Samuel’s eyes were so pleading I did not have the strength to refuse him.
“All right. Let’s get this over with.”
Camille clapped her hands and cheered with glee at my submission, and she led the way out of the crypt.
As we emerged into view of the crowd everyone began to chant. They spoke some other language, and I had no idea what they were saying, but I again was suspecting I was now involved in some kind of cult. I wanted to run but it would be useless. The cemetery was surrounded, and there was no escape.
“Lie down,” Samuel instructed me as he pointed to an empty alter next to the one that held the bloody goat. I complied and tried to ignore the sickening smell of the rotting animal.
I recognized Camille’s voice as it rose above the others. My eyes closed as I prepared myself for the worst. A sound that resembled a knife cutting through thick leather churned my stomach, and I opened my eyes in time to catch her finish decapitating a chicken as she hung it upside down and emptied the bird’s blood onto my torso.
I screamed out in horror, but my cries were drowned by a deafening shrieking sound coming from out in the darkness. My hands covered my ears to muffle the penetrating racket.
This wasn’t part of the ritual. Camille, Samuel, and all the others were mirroring my look of fright, and they each scanned their surroundings to find the source.
I shot up to sit and closed my eyes tight, trying to hide within my own mind from the anxiety until the only deafening sound remaining was that of a grave silence suggesting I was suddenly alone. With some reluctance I let myself open my eyes.
3
The bright lighting of several florescent bulbs sliced through my eyelashes and I immediately snapped my eyes closed again as tight as I could. An ammonia smell burned my nostrils. Freezing cold, I tried to bring my arms up to cover myself, but a sharp pain nagged at my shoulder and radiated through my body. I groaned and someone gasped.
“Charles, she’s waking up!” a woman squeaked.
I knew the voice well, and the sound blanketed me in comforting familiarity. Forcing myself to face the assault of the gleaming daggers above me, I covered the top of my eyes with my hand to create a visor, hoping to lessen the impact. My heart swelled at the tearful, smiling face of my dear Aunt Patrice.
My mother’s sister couldn’t make it to my parents’ funeral. Her flight had been delayed because of the horrible snowstorms in the northeast. Hearing her speak so resentfully of the cold winters in Massachusetts always made me feel grateful I lived Florida.
I braced myself as she flew across the room and snatched me into her arms, pulling me up from the unfamiliar bed. She wore gloves of course, since she was one of the very few people who knew my secret ability.
Once Aunt Patrice had thoroughly squeezed out what little breath I had, she pushed me back and held me by the shoulders. I smiled at her beautiful yet pity-filled blue eyes. I had always envied them. They were always shining and were so full of love. Mine were brown, the boring and far too common color of the modern, just-barely-average female. Her fiery red hair framed her smooth face, which looked much younger than a woman’s of fifty-two.
“Oh dear. You look terrible, Eliza.”
“I feel terrible,” I croaked.
I looked past her at my surroundings—a hospital room. Behind Patrice, blue curtains separated my small bed from another, and in front of the sea green wall on the far side of the room, stood my Uncle Charlie. He wasn’t wearing the same welcome-back-to-reality smile that my aunt had plastered on, but it didn’t bother me. He was much more like me. We didn’t hide our feelings very well, and he had concern written all over his pale face. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in days.
I tried to conjure what had happened. But still, just as in the dream, the last thing I could remember was leaving my parents’ funeral.
Ugh, the damn dream. I’d had that dream every single night since my parents had died, and it was beginning to annoy the shit out of me. At least this time I made it past the steamy part—every other night it ended just before Samuel kissed me, and I would wake up in a hot and bothered haze. As I remembered my company, I blushed and decided daydreaming about that kiss would have to wait until a more appropriate time.
“What happened?” I asked Uncle Charlie because I knew Aunt Patrice would sugar-coat the incident.
“Oh, sweetie.” Patrice took charge of answering anyway. “You just had a little accident, that’s all.”
“What kind of accident?” I probed.
“Well, now, Eliza you don’t need to worry about it right now. You need to get your rest.”
“It feels as if I’ve been resting for weeks. Uncle Charlie?”
Patrice’s gaze darted across the room in a way that relayed a grave warning to her husband.
“Oh for God’s sake, Patty.” He rolled his eyes. “She’s a big girl. She can handle it.”
“All right then.” She pouted. “I’ll just go ask the nurse to bring you some lunch.” She left in an angry scurry, but not before sticking her tongue out at Charlie.
He moved for the first time since I had woken up and meandered to my bedside. He placed his hand on my covered knee and sat beside me with a clenched jaw.
I had to giggle. This was a textbook old country cowboy. He never stepped outside of his front door without his Wranglers, button-up shirt, boots, and hat, and when he spoke his accent was straight out of an old western. He reminded me of Clint Eastwood every time I looked at him, and I loved him for it.
I never understood why he’d married such a city girl like my aunt Patrice. They were a comical couple to watch. They squabbled far more than they cuddled, but they did love each other. The two of them were living proof opposites attract.
“Lizzy.” He cleared his throat as if he was about to tell me I was paralyzed. I moved my legs a little just in case. “How much do you remember?”
“The last thing I remember was getting in the car after Mom and Dad’s wake. I was supposed to meet with their attorney in the morning to go over some issues about their will or something.”
He nodded. “You were in a car accident, Lizzy.”
I froze. My parents had been killed in a car wreck just two weeks ago. At least I thought it was two weeks ago.
“How long have I been in here?”
“Just two days. Nothing is broken, and the doctors say it doesn’t look as though you’ve had a concussion, but you’ve been under so much stress and when this happened, your body probably just needed a little time off to recover and it shut down.”
It sounded strange to me. By the way Uncle Charlie was sanding his blond beard clean off his face with his knuckles, I knew there was something he wasn’t telling me.
“What is it, Uncle Charlie?”
He sighed heavily. “Darlin’, we got the coroner report back on your behalf. He said the injuries your parents had did not match the damage done to their car.”
I gasped. What the hell did that mean? When the police found Mom and Dad’s little blue car crushed in an alley, they had assumed it was a hit and run. It certainly wasn’t ideal, but I could live with the fact that it was an accident and some drunk idiot panicked and took off. Was Uncle Charlie
saying somebody had done this on purpose?
“So it wasn’t an accident?” A tear fell down my cheek.
“They don’t think so, no.”
“And what about the driver that hit me?”
Uncle Charlie bit his lip and shook his head.
“What does that mean, Charlie?” I shouted. “For God’s sake, don’t be so vague. Is he dead?”
He jumped and I immediately regretted snapping, but given the circumstances he would understand. He wasn’t the type to hold a grudge, anyway.
“No, Lizzy. We can’t find him.”
My chest tightened. Somebody had killed my parents. That was hard enough to take in, but what if they were trying to kill me too? I swung my feet over the edge of the bed and tried to stand. I needed to walk. I needed to pace to calm myself.
Uncle Charlie positioned himself in front of me. “You need to stay in bed until we get the OK from the doc.”
“No. I need to get out of this room.”
The walls were closing in. Tears flowed freely. His hands came down on my back and he pulled me into bear hug. I flinched when his fingertips touched the opening in the back of my hospital gown.
“Aaarggh!”
I arched in pain, and he released me, holding his hands up and to the side when he realized what had happened. I dropped my face into my hands and sobbed. It was too much. My parents, this hospital, this pain. I wanted to shrink away, and death seemed as though it would offer such a sweet relief to all this tragedy.
“Look, Charles!” Aunt Patrice yelled. “You’ve gone and upset her. It’s all right dear. Everything is going to be just fine.”
I shook my head at the notion and pulled away when she tried to hold me. An alarm sounded on the monitor I was tethered to, and a nurse rushed in. Sympathy washed over her face as she ran her gaze over me.
I hated the pity.
“I’m fine,” I assured her as I sniffled and wiped my face.
“Your blood pressure is through the roof, dear,” she informed me, pushing Aunt Patrice to the side. “You need to calm down. I think perhaps you’ve had enough visitors for the day.”