“Shut up, woman,” Layne said. “I know I ain’t obligated, and I’ll never be so far from my clan that I can’t find ’em again.”
“Where’s home for you?” Kallie asked. “Wherever my clan is.”
Kallie glanced behind her toward her aunt’s house. “Family is everything,” she murmured. “Even if you want to strangle them.”
Fingertips brushed Kallie’s jaw, turned her head. She met Layne’s warm gaze. “That’s the thing about family,” he said. “You’re always adding to it.”
Or subtracting from it.
Kallie reached back and unfastened the coffin pendant’s clasp. She handed Layne the necklace, coiling the body-heat-warmed chain into his palm. “I want you to burn this with Gage. It represents the loa of the crossroads, something we talked about . . . that night . . . and he . . .” Her words stuck in a throat suddenly too tight. She folded Layne’s fingers over the pendant, then closed her hand over his. “Please,” she whispered.
Renewed grief washed across the nomad’s face. She felt his hand squeeze tight around the pendant. He nodded. Lifting their joined hands to his lips, he kissed her knuckles. Kallie slid her hand away from his and stepped back.
“Hey,” he said. “Augustine told me to ask you why I found myself in wet undies.”
“Interesting suggestion, given that it came from the man who entered you in a wet-boxers contest, stripped you down like a pro, and proudly displayed everything you had to a crowd of beaucoup appreciative women. And men.”
“Christ in a teacup,” Layne muttered. “Man has no shame. So . . . who won?”
“Who do you think won?” Kallie asked innocently.
A wicked smile slid across the nomad’s lips. He winked, sending flutters through Kallie’s belly. He kick-started his bike and it roared to life with a powerful rumble. “I’ll be back, sunshine,” he promised. “We’ll find your soul.”
Kallie hoped so. Though she’d be okay if the search went no farther than underneath his clothes. Sheesh. Looks like I can give Bell a run for her money on the pure-evil title. She watched Layne ride down the dirt drive into the waning night.
Turning, she trudged back to the house. As she climbed the steps to the porch, a flash of red caught her eye. She paused and scanned the ground beside the stairs. She bent and scooped up a mojo bag, its leather cord snapped as if it’d been yanked from someone’s neck.
Jackson’s voice curled through her memory. “I don’t know where she is, Kal. I got in from Grand Isle this
mornin’, and she was beaucoup worked up about somethin’ . . . put a mojo bag around my neck and made me promise to stay home until she got back.”
Dread dropped like cold stones into her belly. Jacks hadn’t driven into town. And someone had torn the mojo bag from him. As she straightened, she saw moonlight glinting upon something metallic just under the button bush beside the porch.
A baseball bat—the one Jacks kept beside the back door.
Kallie’s heart kicked against her ribs. She ran up the steps and into the house. “Ti-tante! Jacks didn’t take Cielo and go into town.” She held up the mojo bag. “His baseball bat’s out in the yard too.”
Divinity’s eyes widened. Fear flashed across her face. “Sweet Jesus,” she breathed. She hurried over to Kallie and took the red flannel bag from her. The woodsy scents of dog rose and sandalwood curled into the air.
Cupping the bag in her palm, Divinity trailed her fingers across it as though she could read Jacks’s fate from the flannel itself.
And maybe she could. But whatever had happened to Jacks had occurred hours ago. And that fact scared Kallie. What if he was already . . . ?
No. She squelched the thought, refused to give it voice. “Could this be connected to Jean-Julien too?” Gabi asked, joining them.
“I ain’t sure,” Kallie said, hating how helpless she felt. She knotted her hands into fists. “But given that his truck is gone, I doubt it. Why would St. Cyr have stolen it or hidden Jacks? I think he’d’ve just killed Jacks and left his body where it could be found.”
Gabi nodded. “I think you’re right about that.”
In truth, Kallie suspected her cousin’s disappearance could be blamed on his work. Jackson had made enemies with his Robin Hood–style bayou pirating, and it didn’t matter one goddamned to them if the goods and cash he gained was given to those most in need, or used to help rebuild hurricane-devastated areas the government continued to ignore.
More than one unhappy outlaw wanted Jackson dead. But why rip the mojo bag from around his neck and drag him away when a couple of bullets into the head would solve the problem named Jackson Bonaparte?
Something felt off and, despite the adrenaline rush lighting up her mind, Kallie had a feeling she was missing something obvious, something important.
“Boy’s still alive,” Divinity said, relief thick in her voice. “But I can’t get a fix on him. No images. No sense of place. I don’t know where he be, but we’re damned sure gonna find out. Go get your cards, girl.”
Kallie raced to her bedroom and scooped the silk-lined bag holding her cards up from her altar. In the living room once more, she knelt in front of the sofa and shook Belladonna’s shoulder. “Wake up, Bell. I need your help.”
Belladonna slivered her eyes open and regarded Kallie suspiciously. “Did you just say you needed me or am I still dreaming about pod-Kallie?”
“It’s Jacks,” Kallie said, ignoring her friend’s comment. “And his ass is in the fire, for true.”
“Hellfire.” Belladonna sat up, wide awake. “Then we gotta pull his fine ass out.”
Kallie felt a tight smile pull at her lips. “Goddamned straight.” She freed her cards from their bag and shuffled them, the last words her cousin had said to her a mantra looping through her thoughts.
“Gotta go. See you on Sunday. Love ya.”
Love ya back, and I’m goddamned holding you to Sunday, Jacks. Kallie flipped over the first card.
Black Dust Mambo Page 31