Black Dust Mambo

by Adrian Phoenix

  “Black dust mambo,” he whispered, his words bubbling with blood.

  What the hell’s he talking about? But even as she wondered, she felt power rise within her like a gator from beneath cypress-shadowed water. Words flowed through her mind.

  “Graveyard dirt, black salt, sulfur, rattlesnake skin, sand, pigeon shit, and the bitterness of an empty heart, ingredients all in a hex to kill body and soul,” Kallie chanted. “Back into you they flow.”

  Kallie cupped her empty palm and blew into it. Her breath caught in her throat as black dust actually flowed up from beneath her skin and streamed from her palm into St. Cyr’s face. The glittering onyx powder rushed into his mouth and down his throat.

  Drums pounded in time with the throbbing in Kallie’s skull, the rhythm fast and primal and hungry. Shadows rippled at the edges of her vision. Cold frosted her veins. And still the black dust poured from her into St. Cyr—mouth, nose, ears, and eyes—in a violent rush of power that scraped against her heart and threatened to yank her under.

  How the hell am I doing this?

  Blanketed in blackest juju of his own making, St. Cyr’s body convulsed, then went still. A second later, a shape dusted in black powder pushed its way out of the root doctor’s lax mouth.

  Kallie stared, her heart thundering in her chest as St. Cyr’s hex-oiled soul slithered out into the night from between his lips.

  “Hellfire,” Belladonna and Layne said together. Doctor Heron’s black soul spiraled up into the air, a triumphant expression sparking across his face.

  “No, goddammit,” Kallie said. She jumped to her feet and grabbed the spirit’s ankles. St. Cyr struggled to kick free of her grip. “Eye for eye, life for life, soul for soul. You shall pay what you owe. For Gage.” Letting go of him with her left hand, she cried, “Return to me!”

  “Kallie, no!”

  Kallie looked in the direction of the voice and saw her aunt and another woman standing beside the old lightning-blasted cypress. She recognized her aunt’s companion as the true Gabrielle LaRue, or one of them at least, the woman from the photos in Rosette’s file. She watched Kallie with a calm and curious expression, a red scarf covering her curls.

  Kallie’s aunt, however, regarded her with the exasperated, hands-on-hips expression she usually wore before grounding someone for the rest of their natural lifetime. She shook her head. “Don’t do it, child. It ain’t yo’ place.”

  “It wasn’t his either,” Kallie said, throat tight. “And I don’t know how you can tell me right from wrong when you can’t even tell me your name.”

  Her aunt blinked, then said, “I had my reasons, girl, but now dat you know, you need to get over it.”

  One Mississippi . . . A muscle flexed in Kallie’s jaw. She returned her attention to the slippery St. Cyr and growled, “Return to me, I said.”

  The black dust coating St. Cyr’s soul rippled, then flowed backward and down, back into Kallie’s waiting palm. The root doctor’s spirit unraveled inch by inch, molecule by molecule, until the air was empty.

  “Hellfire,” Belladonna repeated, her voice stunned. Her aunt tsked in disgust. “I guess an eye for an eye is enough,” Layne said.

  The last speck of black dust melted into the palm of Kallie’s hand and she stumbled, drained and aching. Strong arms looped around her, scooped her up against a hard, leather-jacketed chest. She felt the tickle of dreads against her face.

  “Gotcha, sunshine,” Layne said, voice husky.

  Kallie slipped an arm around his neck and closed her eyes.

  What just happened? And how did I do it?

  THIRTY-FIVE

  GROS BON ANGE

  Kallie walked out of the bathroom, smelling of Ivory soap, her face and hands scrubbed clean of black dust and her own drying blood. Pain throbbed in her sternum and every muscle prickled and ached like she had the flu. A little sleep, and she’d be fine.

  But before she could sleep, she needed the truth. Slipping her cell phone from the pocket of her cutoffs, she noticed a text message from Felicity and opened it.

  DB out of surgery. Expected to live.

  Relief nearly drained the last of the strength from Kallie’s legs. She tucked the cell back into her pocket and hurried into the living room to share the news.

  Belladonna shook her head. “I don’t know if I can ever mock the attempts on his life again after this. Damned man. Glad he’s alive.”

  “Me too,” Kallie said. “I t’ink we all could use a drink,” her aunt said. She circled the room and passed out ice-cold bottles of Abita, her long lavender gypsy-style skirt sweeping the hard-wood floor as she moved. “It’s been a helluva night, for true.”

  Kallie didn’t know about anyone else, but she had a feeling one drink wasn’t going to do the trick.

  “Thanks,” Layne murmured, accepting a bottle. He leaned against the wall beside the open front door. Light-mesmerized moths fluttered against the screen door as cool night air filtered into the room.

  Kallie pressed the cold bottle of Abita against her face, hoping it would chill the ache in her head. It didn’t. Sighing, she decided to give drinking it a try and poured a long, frosty swallow down her throat.

  She wanted to pace the goddamned floor, but was too exhausted to do much more than plop down onto the floral-patterned sofa and prop herself up against one corner. Belladonna slouched at the opposite end, looking just as drained.

  Gabrielle LaRue, the woman from the photos, sat in one of two cherrywood rockers opposite the sofa. A carnation-red scarf hugged her curls, matching the button- down, three-quarter-sleeve blouse she wore over a pair of tan corduroy jeans. She tipped her beer bottle against her lips, her curious gaze on Kallie.

  How can she look so calm after watching me destroy a man she once loved? And why— how —is she here? She doesn’t seem upset about St. Cyr or the loss of her identity.

  “So let’s hear it,” Kallie said, shifting her attention to her tante. “Who are you, really, and why did you lie to me and Jacks? Who are you hiding from?”

  From the second cherrywood rocker, her tante flapped a hand at her. “Don’t be foolish, girl. I be your aunt.”

  “I know that. You look like Mama.” Shoulder-length black hair, light cocoa-colored skin, tilted eyes more green than hazel. “I’m betting you’re Divinity.”

  Her aunt nodded and took a sip from her beer. “Dat I am.”

  This was going to be like wrenching nails from an old board with only fingernails. Kallie forced herself onto her feet. “You planning on answering me sometime this decade?”

  “I was getting to it, girl,” Gabrielle—her aunt, Divinity—chided. “Where be yo’ patience? I didn’t lie to you kids, I just didn’t tell you my true name.”

  “Why not? Why all the goddamned subterfuge?” Kallie asked. “Dallas was nearly killed because Doctor Heron confused you with the real Gabrielle, and Layne’s clan brother was killed.”

  Divinity looked at Layne, sympathy and regret on her face. “My heart goes out to you,” she told him. “If I’da known . . . if I’da had any idea . . . I woulda chosen a different identity to steal. My only intention was to protect Kallie.”

  Layne just nodded, jaw tight. He drained a good portion of his beer.

  “Protect me from who?” Kallie folded her arms under her breasts and shifted her weight onto one hip. “Mama’s locked up.” A dark thought occurred to her. “Ain’t she?”

  Divinity returned her attention to Kallie. “Oui, girl, your mama’s still in Saint Dymphna’s.”

  “So then why did you need a new identity?” Kallie prodded. “And why did you choose Gabi’s?”

  “She knew I’d left Louisiana for Haiti after everything that had happened with Jean-Julien,” Gabi cut in, her voice musical with island rhythm. She fixed a fierce gaze on Divinity, her handsome face hard. “She thought I’d never find out and, in truth, she might’ve been right, since I don’t use credit cards or banks.”

  Kallie glanced from Gabi to her aunt. Div
inity sat rigid in her chair, looking uncomfortable, but far from contrite with her lifted chin.

  Whoops. Seems I was beaucoup wrong about Gabi not being upset.

  Divinity met her former namesake’s eyes. “Nine years ago, when de need came up, I asked around to see if you’d come back and I learned you were still in Haiti. So . . .” She lifted a shoulder in an eloquent shrug.

  “So you stole my name and eventually drew Jean-Julien’s attention,” Gabi said. She placed her empty Abita bottle on the candle-cluttered end table situated between the rockers. “When I knew him, the man wasn’t a killer. A womanizer, yes, but not a murderer.” She sighed. “That changed in prison, it seems. But being convicted of crimes you never committed and then being denied parole for refusing to express remorse for those crimes would take a toll on anyone.”

  “Don’t make it right,” Layne said. “Go after the one who framed you, yeah. But why kill people who had nothing to do with it?”

  “Did you frame him?” Kallie asked Gabi quietly. “Or was it Babette?”

  Surprise rippled across Gabi’s face. She studied Kallie, head tilted thoughtfully to one side. “Much more than just pretty, aren’t you, girl? I always believed that Babette had been the guilty party and, no matter how furious I was with Jean-Julien at the time, he hadn’t deserved what happened to him. But I had no proof of his wife’s guilt. I’d even spoken to the sheriff, but it was a closed case as far as he was concerned.” She looked at Layne, sorrow shadowing her face. “I had no idea Jean-Julien or his daughter blamed me for his imprisonment. I’m so sorry.”

  Layne’s muscles tensed and flexed underneath his T-shirt, along his arms. He nodded. “Thanks,” he said, voice husky.

  Kallie joined him against the wall. He glanced at her, a rueful smile on his lips. She offered him a smile in return, wishing she could just kiss him instead.

  With a soft sigh, Kallie shifted her attention back to her aunt. “How did you figure out what was happening?” she asked. “And how the hell did you find Gabi?”

  Divinity took a long swallow of beer, then shook her head. “Dat’s just it—I didn’t piece it together right away. When Dallas called, he tol’ me that a girl named Rosette tried to shoot you and dat she mentioned my name and—” Pausing, she glanced at Gabi. “Yo’ name,” she corrected, “dat she’d been talking about revenge.”

  “‘An eye for an eye is never enough,’” Kallie murmured. “Then what?”

  “I remembered my readings from dat morning—de cards and de shells,” Divinity replied. “De cards had revealed jail and imprisonment, bad luck caused by a man, and de shells had laid down de pattern for death and night, ancestors, and a destiny about to be disrupted. When I added de readings to what Dallas had tol’ me . . . well, it got me to t’inking dat maybe de ‘imprisonment’ didn’t mean Saint Dymphna’s, and dat de ‘ancestors’ didn’t mean yo’ mama. Got me to t’inking dat maybe it wasn’t me dis Rosette wanted revenge upon.”

  “So I got a phone call,” Gabi put in. “True dat,” Divinity said. “I’d heard a rumor dat Gabi had moved back from Haiti a couple of weeks ago and settled in Lafayette—meaning I’d hafta change my identity again soon—so I started askin’ around. When I found her, I draped a mojo bag around Jackson’s neck—and I got an earful waiting for dat boy when he gets his ass home, for true—den I walked into town and took the Greyhound to Lafayette.” She glanced at Gabi. “What I had to say couldn’t be said over de phone.”

  Gabi’s hands curled around the rocker’s arms. Her jaw tightened. “No,” she agreed. “After the initial shock of everything your aunt told me, I realized that Rosette had to be Jean-Julien’s daughter. I’d heard he’d been released from prison, but I didn’t want to believe he was involved.”

  “What convinced you?” Kallie asked.

  Gabi’s sympathetic gaze flicked back to Layne. “The soul-killing hex,” she replied. “I couldn’t imagine Jean-Julien’s daughter possessing that kind of power. But Jean-Julien? Oh, yes. But I never dreamed . . .” Lips compressed, she shook her head.

  “Since Gabi hadn’t yet stocked up on all de herbs and roots Customs forced her to leave behind in Haiti, we came back here to lay a crossing trick against Doctor Heron—one powerful enough to stop de man dead in his tracks.”

  “But you and your nomad friend had already put Jean-Julien down with steel and black dust,” Gabi said, her attention focused on Kallie, her hazel eyes looking deep. “Special child,” she murmured.

  Kallie shifted, uneasy beneath the woman’s scrutiny. “What do you mean?”

  “Of course she be special,” her aunt said indignantly. “She’s my niece, ain’t she? And I don’t regret what I’ve done.” She looked at Kallie. “I did what I needed to do to keep you and Jackson safe. But I do regret not being more careful.”

  “Again—keep us safe from what?”

  “From dose who would want to finish what yo’ mama started.”

  “Kill me,” Kallie said, stating a fact.

  Layne sucked in a sharp breath of air, and shifted against the wall, and Kallie had a feeling Augustine hadn’t mentioned her past to him.

  “Hell no. Yo’ mama never wanted to kill you,” Divinity said.

  Kallie stared at her aunt, incredulous. “She shot me. In the head.”

  “But she wasn’t trying to kill you, girl. She was trying to awaken what’s inside of you.”

  “Inside of me? What?” A chill shuddered through Kallie as the image of a heart bound in chains made of pale bones filled her mind. “Are you loco?”

  “No, you sassy child, I ain’t loco.” Divinity slammed her bottle of Abita onto the coffee table, rose to her feet, then stalked across the room to her worktable. She picked something up from its root-and-herb-cluttered surface and carried it over to Kallie. She shook a violet-eyed poppet in Kallie’s face.

  “Dere ain’t nothing I wouldn’t do to help you, Kalindra Sophia. Teach you. Guide you. Lie to you. Bind you, if it be necessary. Because a big wrong’s been done to you.”

  Kallie pushed away from the wall, her hands clenched into fists. Her pulse pounded hard through her veins. “I didn’t notice ‘tell the truth’ in that list,” she said, voice tight. “Where does that fit in . . . Divinity?”

  Fire burned in her aunt’s eyes, a controlled blaze. “It don’t, child. Because de truth be too much for you to bear.”

  “How can you know that when you haven’t told me the truth?”

  “Foolish girl,” she muttered. “T’inking de truth be a white knight on a beautiful pony. Well, it ain’t. T’inks she knows what be best. Well, she don’t. Don’t care what people do for her. Ungrateful.”

  Kallie rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. So what wrong has been done to me?”

  Divinity dropped her hands to her generous hips and drew herself up to her full five foot seven. Even though she was only two inches taller than Kallie, she somehow always managed to loom. Like she was doing now. She fixed her stoniest Medusa glare on Kallie. “You want de truth? Fine, den. How do you t’ink you survived dat hex tonight?”

  Kallie frowned. “Belladonna did CPR on me.” Divinity lifted a knowing eyebrow. “Mmm-hmmm. Dat she did—on yo’ body. How do you t’ink yo’ soul survived? Yo’ Gros Bon Ange?”

  “I . . . uh . . .” Kallie lapsed into silence. Already she could barely remember what had happened beside the bayou. A dream pulsed through her memory.

  The jarring thud of hooves against the ground vibrates along her spine, jolts her body with each ground-swallowing gallop. Rough hair rubs against her cheek, twists around her fingers. She smells horse musk and, underneath her thighs, feels the powerful flex of muscles.

  She looked at her aunt and shook her head. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I had this dying dream . . . something about a horse and a chained heart.”

  “No dream, girl. You be alive because when you were born to your mama and papa, yo’ soul was removed to make room for the loa placed inside yo’ infant body. The same
loa dat your mama tried to awaken with blood and darkness by murdering your papa and shooting you.”

  “Fuck,” Layne whispered.

  Kallie felt like she’d just been pummeled by a heavyweight with lead in his gloves. She stared at her aunt, her brain scrabbling for something—anything—to say beyond “Huh?”

  Quick-witted Belladonna said nothing, because the gentle buzz rising from the sofa indicated that the voodooienne had fallen asleep. Kallie envied her. She didn’t think she’d ever sleep again.

  “Dere,” Divinity said, hands still on her hips. “You feel better now?”

  “Yes,” Kallie lied. “Absolutely. One hundred percent.” Divinity snorted. “Well, you can be grateful for de fact dat yo’ Ti Bon Ange, yo’ consciousness, will, and stubborn personality, be still in place.”

  “But . . . why was a loa put inside of me?” Kallie asked. “Who did it? How? And why the hell would Mama want to awaken it?” She felt strong, supportive fingers curl around her forearm, and she darted a grateful glance at Layne.

  Divinity blew out a weary breath. “You taking up journalism? Questions for another day, Kallie-girl. You be dead on your feet and de story’s too long.” Her expression softened. “But I promise you de answers—later, after you’ve slept.”

  Kallie wanted to argue, wanted to demand those answers now, but her aunt was right—exhaustion blurred her thoughts, dulled her focus. “D’accord, but I’m gonna hold you to that. Tell me this at least—where’s my soul, my Gros Bon Ange?”

  “Well, see, dat be de problem,” Divinity said. “We don’t know. Your mama was de last one who had it, and she ain’t talking.”

  “Great,” Kallie muttered. She lifted the bottle of Abita to her lips and drained it.

  Layne straddled his harley and strapped on his matte black shorty-style helmet. His green-eyed gaze held Kallie’s. “I’ll be back to help you,” he said. “After Gage’s cremation and after Augustine passes on.”

  A smile brushed Kallie’s lips. “I appreciate that, I really do. But you ain’t obligated. You’ve got your clan.”