The Malveaux Curse Mysteries Boxset 1

by G A Chase

  After a breakfast of whatever they could find in the kitchen, the band loaded their equipment into the VW.

  Delphine pulled Kendell aside. She had the silver skull in her hand. “You did a lot of work to secure this. I thought you might want to keep it in a safe place.”

  Kendell turned the knob made from hammered pieces of eight in her hand. She didn’t have Myles’s ability to read an object’s history, but holding something so highly impregnated with energy was like handling a dead rat—some things just had to be experienced to be understood. “Cheesecake has made it clear she doesn’t want anything more to do with any object subjected to the Malveaux curse. I can’t keep it at my place.”

  “Typically, I’d be the first to take the skull. After all, Marie was the one who cast the binding spell. But the diary was clear. It’s yours as the Inheritor, as is the book itself. Store it with the baron’s other old possessions. You never know when it might come in handy.”

  Kendell walked out into the morning light, staring into the hollowed-out eye sockets of the small sculpture. If she turned it just right, she could barely make out the old Spanish markings. She was so intent on the engravings she nearly ran into Minerva as the drummer was hauling part of her kit to the bus. “You’re still holding Fleurentine Laurette-Malveaux’s old trunks for me. Think you could add one more thing to her collection?”

  Minerva took the skull and inspected the hole underneath. “Actually, if you think it wouldn’t be too dangerous, it might make a nifty knob for my gear shift. My old bus can use all the help it can get.”

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  The drive from the north shore to New Orleans took three times as long as normal after the storm. The challenge wasn’t only the traffic, though plenty of cars were searching out the same circuitous route home, keeping the old VW bus company. With all the street flooding and poorly marked detours, getting back to the city was like following a series of secret clues to an exclusive rave.

  Myles wasn’t a fan of Minerva’s vintage bus. Every time the engine sputtered from sucking in water, he was reminded of how little he knew about vehicle repair. As the only guy in the vehicle, he feared his manliness might be called into question.

  Kendell was sitting close enough to his side that Cheesecake was able to stretch out over both their laps. “I wonder how many people tried to ride out the storm.”

  Having to zigzag through neighborhoods to find the higher and dryer roads made it easy to see which homes had occupants and which had been hastily boarded up.

  “They didn’t have much notice,” he said. “I’ve always thought that was the one saving grace of a hurricane—enough warning time to get out of town. This one was more like a giant tornado that came out of nowhere and dumped a lake’s worth of water on the city.”

  Minerva made some tight turns to get around debris that had been washed into the street. She stopped the bus and pulled the clackety handbrake. After a moment, Myles realized they were in front of the Scratchy Dog. He’d never before seen Frenchmen Street empty of cars and people.

  The club had suffered the usual storm damage: The uneven cement floor had miniature lakes of standing water, the big front window was nothing more than shards of glass, and the bar was covered in bottles—both empty and full—making the place look as though someone had thrown one wild party. Other than the water on the floor, most of the damage looked to have been caused by opportunists thinking the night before might have been their last on Earth. Having raided the Laroque summer home, Myles wasn’t going to be judgmental. However, he did hope Charlie had had the good sense to straighten up before the last of their party left.

  With everyone pitching in to clean the place, the afternoon felt more like a continuation of the party from the night before than work. Even Cheesecake lent a paw, though only in her normal supervisory position. Sitting on the room’s musty couch, she looked like the club’s unofficial mascot, and she received far more pats than duties.

  With the glass swept up, Myles inspected the loose shards still hanging on the window frame. “We should board this up. I’d hate for someone to get sliced open by one of these.”

  Polly took a microphone stand and busted out one of the triangular pieces of glass. “No way. Punch them all out. I want the gig tonight to be one big street party.”

  Myles doubted the modification would be appreciated by the building’s owner, but he wasn’t around. “I wonder if there’s a law against breaking in and rocking out.”

  “I’ve always wanted this band to be more edgy,” Polly said. “Getting arrested for playing would certainly add to our mystique.”

  With the heavy work done, Kendell took Myles to one side. She pulled out an expensive bottle of rum he assumed she’d appropriated from the bar. “I need to know what happened to Sanguine. Of course, if you can find out about the cane, Colin, and Baron Samedi, that would be great, but I’m most concerned about Sanguine.”

  He was still perfecting his ability to be a good boyfriend, but some emotional traumas weren’t hard to figure out. “You’re afraid she didn’t survive the hurricane?”

  “That or the fight over the cane. If she’s hiding somewhere, I need to know so I can help.”

  The outdoor courtyard behind the Scratchy Dog hadn’t been battered nearly as badly as the club. Metal tables and chairs were still positioned for a quiet conversation or a private affair. Myles set two glasses on a wet table and pulled a couple dry chairs from under the balcony.

  Papa Ghede materialized as Myles poured the rum. “You’ve had quite the eventful couple of days.”

  Myles seldom had someone available to explain the answers to his life’s events. “What happened to Colin, Sanguine, and Baron Samedi?”

  Papa Ghede drank his rum like a person hoping to forget his past. Myles had seen plenty of such customers at the bar. “I don’t know.”

  “Bullshit. You know everything that happens among the living and the dead.”

  The dark voodoo loa’s eyes sparkled like black diamonds. “The challenge of knowing everything is to survive the boredom. I noticed people find meaning in learning about other people. As I know everything that every person is up to, that sense of mystery wasn’t really possible for me. But as no one was telling me what to do, I changed the equation.”

  Myles wasn’t looking for more metaphysical nonsense. He just wanted to know if Sanguine was okay and if Colin Malveaux was still a threat. “All I’m asking is who ended up with the walking stick.”

  But apparently Papa Ghede wasn’t content with such trivialities. “I’m trying to explain to you why I don’t know. A certain amount of mystery between people helps them bond together. Getting to know one another is key to the relationship’s growth. But since I knew everything about everyone, I was denied that fundamental part of life.”

  “So you changed the equation?” Myles began to understand. “You’re talking about the voodoo loas.”

  “Exactly. But not just them. To truly have other beings to relate to, I divided up some of my powers and offered them to the recently deceased. You understand I couldn’t trust such power to the living.”

  “Of course. Even a little power, and we end up with a baron Malveaux.”

  Papa Ghede smiled over his glass of rum. “That’s how the voodoo loas came into being. But you’re among the living. Not everyone believes the same thing about existence.”

  “So you created other religions, too?”

  He helped himself to another drink. “What people believe is like a multifaceted diamond with the truth at its core. People are free to peer into whichever window they like, but each is separate from the others as a test to see if a person has seen the truth or is too enamored with their particular perspective.” Though Myles enjoyed a lively conversation about the nature of existence, Papa Ghede could get a little overly philosophical when he drank.

  “I still don’t see how that prevents you from knowing what happened to Colin and Sanguine. Are they still alive?”

  He see
med to have been more interested in the drink than the question. “What a person believes becomes their reality. Take you, for instance.”

  “Wait a minute. Just because you’re sitting here doesn’t mean that I believe in voodoo.”

  “No, of course not,” Papa Ghede said. “Had you followed the practices of voodoo, you’d be no more than a disciple. You believed in the deep waters. That made you an equal to the loas of the dead.”

  Myles wasn’t sure he liked where Papa Ghede was headed. “Sanguine didn’t believe in voodoo. Her perspective was Wicca. Where does that leave her in your world?”

  “Herein lies the problem. When she tossed the walking stick into the tempest, she moved it from the realm of voodoo to that of Wicca. Colin Malveaux dove in after it, thus removing himself from my sight as well. The cane’s transfer cast a shadow over those who were involved. They are not in the deep waters. Guinee is a land of unknowns for me. It’s my place of discovery. Colin and Baron Samedi might be there, but I have reason to believe they aren’t.”

  Myles hated that Papa Ghede kept so many secrets about Guinee. “Why don’t you think they’re there?”

  He gave Myles a long, hard look. “I suppose, as a permanent visitor to Guinee, you have a right to know. Not all of the loas get along with each other.”

  Myles remembered his time getting to know each of the loas of the dead. “I did notice that Baron Kriminel and Ghede Nibo weren’t on speaking terms.”

  “You are very perceptive. After Kriminel killed Nibo, Baron Samedi took in Nibo in the afterlife. This made Kriminel and Samedi enemies.”

  Myles had never been clear on how, exactly, Archibald Malveaux had come to possess Baron Samedi’s cane. “Did Baron Kriminel tell Malveaux how to steal the staff?”

  “You’re beginning to understand the situation. So long as the baron Malveaux had the walking stick, he held Baron Samedi’s power. This worked in favor of Baron Kriminel. Power struggles aren’t limited to the living.”

  The idea that Sanguine had somehow created a new form of hell was looking more likely to Myles. “So if they’re not in Guinee and not among the living, that only leaves the realm of the witches.”

  Papa Ghede frowned at the empty bottle. “I have more questions than answers about that possibility. The witches have their own intermediary plane between the living and the dead. Ultimately, we all end up in the deep waters. I find it unlikely they would welcome Colin Malveaux into their purgatory if he was holding Baron Samedi’s cane. It’s also not a place he’d go willingly as he’s a practitioner of voodoo.”

  Myles began to see why the power of the hurricane had been necessary. “So they forced him into a realm they created.”

  The old voodoo loa’s eyes turned as black as endless voids. “Creating a new afterlife is no simple matter. If a soul is pushed into it, there has to be a gate from life to the new death. Obviously, that gate must be guarded. Then the realm itself must have rules, and that involves rulers to keep the status quo. Assuming the voodoo cane got sucked into that new reality, that would create another gate—this one between this new afterlife and Guinee.”

  Myles didn’t need to be told of the potential results of a spirit passing through a gate without acceptance from both sides. “And with every gate, there exists the possibility of conflict between the two sides. Such a new reality doesn’t sound like something a beginning swamp witch could create within a few days.”

  “There are many questions. The disappearance of Baron Samedi is very disquieting. He is already a gatekeeper in Guinee. Were he to find himself in this new afterlife—trapped with his adversary—he might take it on as his personal mission to be the new gatekeeper or, possibly, the ruler.”

  Myles grew suspicious of Papa Ghede’s intent on being present. “Something tells me you’re not here just to answer my questions.”

  The old man’s smile did nothing to lighten Myles’s apprehension. “You straddle many realities. Baron Samedi belongs in Guinee as guardian of the seventh gate. If he’s missing, we have a rift between the living and the dead—one I will have to fill as his substitute until he returns. And if Colin Malveaux has the cane in the realm of the witches, there could be a war between voodoo and Wicca. We have too many doors and not enough watchers.”

  How did you gods ever get along without me?

  * * *

  By five in the afternoon, the club’s floor was dry enough to no longer be a safety hazard. The place still smelled musty, but that beat the aroma of garbage steeped in drainage water, which permeated most of the neighborhood.

  The generator out back made enough of a racket to be heard on stage, but Kendell didn’t mind. Frenchmen Street was typically pretty noisy most nights, anyway. The band would easily drown out the small motor with their playing.

  Myles’s report about the afterlife struck panic deep in her soul. She still didn’t know what had happened to Sanguine. Transferring her frustration onto him, simply because he couldn’t find the answer, wouldn’t be fair. His reasoning that the new swamp witch couldn’t have created the afterlife did nothing for her anxiety. Obviously, Sanguine was the only one with the answers, and no one was out looking for her—not that Kendell had any idea of where to start.

  She tuned her electric guitar, hoping the gig would distract her from her worries. Cheesecake was safe, back in the apartment, and Myles would stay at the club, working as a fill-in bartender with Charlie. His and Cheesecake’s safety were the most important things. She wished her pooch was fonder of the band’s playing, but noisy, large crowds made the old girl nervous.

  Professor Yates had sweated through his T-shirt, trying to electrify the club. “There is enough power for your instruments but not much else. I’m afraid it’s going to be warm beer and candlelight tonight.”

  Polly wore her typical short black skirt over ripped fishnet stockings, which looked normal and helped combat Kendell’s feelings of unease. “So long as they can hear us in the street. Word of mouth is going to be our only advertisement tonight.”

  Charlie had been busy organizing the bar. “I’ve got a few concoctions up my sleeve for when there’s no power. There might not be much in the way of variety, but I suspect people will be more into alcohol content than taste. Storms have a way of simplifying the palate.”

  Polly had always maintained a keen awareness of every band member. She nudged Kendell as she looked over the makeshift operation. “Lighten up. You look like a drowned puppy. We’re supposed to be helping the community feel like getting back to normal.”

  Kendell knew she was right, as the club was one of the few establishments able to reopen so quickly. “This is a good thing we’re doing. I suspect a lot of people would like to either get out of town or hole up with their depression.”

  The bandleader gave Kendell’s guitar case a light kick with her high-heeled stiletto. “If you’ve got that golden pick in there, this might be a good night to let it rip. We could all use a dose of your high-octane energy.”

  Kendell pulled it from her pocket. “I’ve been keeping it close.”

  “Good. We’ll only have a couple of hours before the city’s curfew kicks in. Let’s make it a post-hurricane party to remember. No songs about storms, just loud, in-your-face music. You do your best Joan Jett. People love it when you go all dark and intense.”

  “Only if you pull out your inner Debbie Harry.”

  People had been milling around the club all afternoon, so when Polly stepped up to the microphone, she didn’t have to work too hard to gather their attention. “We’ve only got one measly generator tonight, so we’re going to need you all to make some noise!”

  A polite smattering of cheers went up from the sidewalk.

  “You’re not getting it. Sing along, sure, but go get your instruments—drums, horns, empty five-gallon buckets, whatever you’ve got. Don’t leave us poor girls up here all alone.” Her coquettish innocence didn’t fool anyone.

  With Charlie and Myles manning the bar and the band at t
heir usual positions on stage, Professor Yates forced open the water-swollen door to let the loiterers know the club was open. “No cover and free drinks. All we ask is you tip what you feel you can afford. This is New Orleans, and we are all in this together.”

  Polly stomped out the opening beat to “One Way or Another.” The crowd was into the song even before Minerva had a chance to add in the drums.

  Kendell got lost in the music, as always. She could feel the crowd electrifying her with their energy, and she, in turn, gave all she had to create the perfect vibrations with her strings. More people gathered with each song, and as they expressed their love of the music in whatever way they could, she experienced all they’d been through. They’d spent their day slogging through the wreckage that had been their homes and lives just a few days before. The release of hearing music gave them something to grab hold of, and she embraced them right back.

  Music was her mystical power. She took their pain and filled the void with optimism. The people were alive. They’d weathered the storm. All they needed was to understand the power that gave each of them and how much they could do together.

  Other musicians joined in across the street, which had filled with people—the guys from Cutting Heads and the Mutants from Table Nine, who usually played after Polly Urethane and the Strippers, and so many street musicians that she had trouble telling if they were a group or individual performers.

  As the band poured everything they had into “I Love Rock and Roll,” Kendell saw a clearing in the crowd. In the middle was a beautiful woman, spinning so quickly that her vintage ivory lace dress flew around her like waves on the ocean and her long blond hair wrapped around her face. As the song ended, the woman faced Kendell and pointed at her in acknowledgment.

  Kendell’s heart felt about to explode as she returned the gesture to Sanguine.

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