Hounacier (Valducan Book 2)

by Seth Skorkowsky

A cluster of policemen circled behind the van, pistols and shotguns drawn. They pulled a man in filthy green shorts out of the back and pushed him into the yard. Once cleansed, the two officers dragged the haggard prisoner forward. Steel cuffs bound the man's wrists and ankles. Swollen bruises and scabby cuts marred his hollow-cheeked face, likely remnants of some terrible beating. Judging by the officers' treatment of him, Malcolm could guess the handiwork was theirs.

  Ulises displayed his palm, and the prisoner let out a high, terrible scream. He struggled to pull away, but the officers held him firm. Hounacier out, Ulises marched the cuffed man to the yard and locked him inside with the others.

  "Who was that?" Malcolm asked as they walked back to the front.

  "The man they caught," Ulises said.

  "The killer?" Malcolm glanced back. The man stood, shoulders slumped inside the corral, the two policemen beside it. "You said he was innocent."

  "No," Ulises corrected. "I said he wasn't the real murderer, but he did kill those people."

  Confused, Malcolm opened his mouth to reply but thought better of it. Just go along with him. Don't ruin your chance of the interview.

  After several more minutes, the last of the attendees were admitted, and the priests made their way toward the erect post at the yard's center. Wiping the sweat from his brow, Malcolm located a food-cluttered table and fetched some lukewarm water from a white-haired woman. He gulped it down, refilled the cup, then carried it and a fresh one to Ulises.

  "I had hoped for more," the old bokor said to Father Tavel. The two men stood beside a row of wooden trunks.

  Tavel frowned. "You said you only needed three."

  "Three is the minimum for an anchor. Four is preferred."

  "Can you still do your magic?"

  Ulises pursed his lips. "It will be difficult. The beast will fight. If it is strong enough, it may resist."

  Tavel met Ulises' eye. "Then fight it harder," he said, his tone hard, almost threatening. He picked up a brown bottle from a trunk and joined the other priests gathered near the pole.

  Ulises let out a long breath then picked up a grimy brown duffel from behind one of the boxes and set it on the lid.

  Malcolm offered one of the cups. "I brought you some water."

  The bokor accepted it and downed it in three gulps. He dug through the canvas bag and removed a long necklace of tiny shells. A graven bone hung from the end, its curved shape resembling a claw or crescent. Ulises kissed the bone then pulled the necklace over his head. He removed a rolled leather bundle from the duffel and continued to dig. "Here," he said, pulling out a second necklace, a single-strand rather than three. He kissed the bone amulet at the end. "Wear this."

  Malcolm lowered his head, and Ulises put it around his neck. "Thank you."

  A brief smile tugged the edge of the old man's mouth then was gone. "I am sword-bearer, but a laplas should be armed." He untied the lace around the bundle and unrolled it.

  Malcolm swallowed, seeing the ancient, sawed-off Remington. The wooden stock had been sanded down into a curved grip.

  "You are to carry this." Ulises drew the weapon from a long, stitched holster and thumbed the lever on the back, opening it. "Do not fire it unless I tell you. There will be many people around, and the spray might hurt someone if you aren't close to the beast."

  "Beast?"

  Ulises removed a green cartridge from a loop inside the roll and loaded it into the right barrel. "This one is bronze. I suspect it will work." He loaded the second barrel with a red one, a black stripe drawn around its end. "If not, this is a general load. Something in here may hurt it." He snapped the shotgun closed and slid it back into the holster. "Safety is on the back."

  "I can't shoot that," Malcolm said, stepping back. "It might kill someone."

  The old man gave him a hard glare. "If the time comes to fire it, people will already be dead. You do as I tell you." He offered the weapon. "Put it on."

  Malcolm clenched his teeth. He drew a breath then accepted the shotgun. It had a long shoulder strap that crossed his chest and hung at his hip.

  "Good." Ulises shoved the roll back into the duffel and cinched it closed. "It's time."

  The two men circled around to the far edge of the open ring surrounding the painted pole. Mambos and houngans moved to the music, drawing swirling chalk and cornmeal patterns around the tall post. Malcolm found himself bobbing his head to the beat as he mentally noted as much of the ceremony as he could. Priests blew mouthfuls of liquor onto the pole. The chickens were fed before their heads were twisted from their bodies. The sword-bearers danced in the circle, twirling their blades in mock, rhythmic combat.

  The congregation's energy rolled higher. Chanting grew faster, hundreds of voices merging in song. More dancers trickled into the ring, seeming drunk within the moment. Dust swirled in the air from dancing feet, only adding to the stink of sweat and smoke.

  Eventually, one of the dancers, an elderly man, began to shake, his eyes rolling up into his head. He stumbled and bumped into one of the priests. The other dancers moved around him, singing and chanting, and the man suddenly moved with an energy and vigor he hadn't had before. He hopped and shimmied in a unique rhythm.

  The first of the loa had arrived.

  The priests gathered around the possessed man. One hurried to one of the nearby trunks and fetched a straw hat and a twisted cane, which the old man graciously took.

  Malcolm watched the man saunter and dance as Legba, the Gatekeeper. Of course, he knew there was no spirit, no Legba. But obviously, the old man believed it, and so did the others. He wondered what made the old man believe the spirit had taken him. Could he have moved in those rhythms before? How much of his new vigor was psychosomatic?

  More dancers moved inside the ring, their fervor fueled by the loa's appearance. Others began to shake and twitch as the spirits mounted them. Each time, the priests moved in to greet them, verify the loa's identity, then fetch their signifying totems. Erzulie, Sogbo, and a half-dozen more appeared within the congregation. In his observations, Malcolm had witnessed possessions before but rarely more than three at the same time. Still, more arrived with rolling eyes and sporadic convulsions.

  He watched a young man with a wisp of a goatee wearing a pair of sunglasses with only one lens and clutching a rum bottle. The teenager groped several of the women, posing as Ghede. Malcolm grinned to himself, seeing the boy swig the liquor and get away with much more than he could probably ever do otherwise. He had no doubt the boy was enjoying his absolute, if temporary, freedom.

  A stocky man leaped past, swinging a black machete. Malcolm scooted away, allowing the man more room. He recognized him as Ogoun, the warrior. Ogoun danced before Ulises then stopped and began speaking to him.

  Curious what wisdom the spirit was imparting, Malcolm started toward them. Then the rum-swilling youth in the one-eyed glasses stepped in his way.

  "How you doin', white-boy?" he bellowed. "Enjoyin' yourself?" His breath reeked of alcohol.

  Malcolm forced a smile. He'd known it was only time before the spirits harassed the outsider. They never failed to. "I'm fine."

  "Of course you're fine," the boy said through a wide, toothy grin. "You got yourself a lady. Just need to impress her papa."

  "No," Malcolm said, bemused. "Sorry. I don't have a lady." He tried to step around the drunk teen, but the boy gripped his shoulder firmly.

  "Don't you be fibbin' to Papa Ghede," he laughed. "I see you eyein' her. You goin' to watch her dance. See if you can learn the steps."

  Malcolm shook his head. "So which lady is it?"

  The teen laughed again then pointed the hand holding the bottle toward Ulises. "That one right there. You've been followin' her all day."

  "You caught me," Malcolm said, playing along as he tried to slip out of the boy's grip.

  "Don't you worry, Milky. I won't tell her husband."

  Malcolm froze, his brain reeling in complete surprise. "What?"

  "Her man."

>   "No," Malcolm said. "What did you call me?"

  The boy swigged his bottle and grinned. "Milky. That's what your baby sister called you when she was little. Couldn't pronounce your name. Mama thought it was cute. Started callin' you that. She said it in front of your friends one day when you were eleven, and they laughed. Kept callin' you that because it made your ears turn red." He cocked his head a little. "Aren't red now. You look pale, Milky."

  Malcolm just stared at him, his mouth open.

  The boy offered the bottle. "You look like you need a drink."

  Malcolm started for the bottle when the youth slapped his hand away and laughed.

  "You can't have Papa Ghede's rum. Get your own."

  "How…did you know that?" Malcolm asked.

  The boy's one visible eye squinted mischievously. "Papa Ghede's been watchin' you for a long time. Watched you take you first step, your kiss, first fuck. Now, I'll watch you fall in love." He turned and grinned at Ulises then back at Malcolm. "And she is a beautiful lady."

  "Who?" Malcolm asked, genuinely creeped out and curious.

  "Hounacier," the boy breathed, the sour stink washing over Malcolm's face.

  "The…machete?'

  The boy cocked his head and giggled. "She's no more a machete than I am a seventeen-year-old named Toussaint who abuses himself every mornin'."

  "So it's a loa?"

  "No, she's something else. Something…" he lifted his hand like trying to catch a delicate, unseen bubble on his fingertips, "beautiful." He poked Malcolm in the chest with his finger. "You'll see, Milky. You just keep impressin' daddy before you court his woman." He knocked back the bottle then offered it. "To love."

  Malcolm raised a tentative hand, and the boy snatched the bottle away. Without a word, the teen sauntered back into the ring, laughing. Malcolm stood dumfounded by the whole encounter. He shook his head. He'd once seen a street psychic dazzle people by revealing things to audience members he couldn't have possibly known. It was a trick, a mentalist hustle. Tavel was too reputable a houngan to have set it up. He was a believer. Ulises? Malcolm didn't know why Mama Ritha had disliked the old bokor. Maybe he was a scam artist.

  Still, how had the boy known about the nickname?

  Malcolm glanced across to Ulises. The old man nodded sternly, motioning him over, and Malcolm edged through the dancing crowd toward him.

  "You were to stay by my side," Ulises quietly scolded.

  "I'm sorry."

  Ulises sighed. "I believe the loa have all arrived. It's time for us to begin our part."

  Malcolm quietly followed as Ulises shared words with several of the priests and the old man posing as Legba. The fourteen loa-possessed worshippers gathered at the central post and began dancing around it, their circle growing, pushing everyone but Ulises and Malcolm away until they'd cleared a forty-foot-wide ring. The dancing loa took the chalk and cornmeal and began drawing the elaborate and swirling edges of the ring save for a narrow gap at one end. The drumbeats continued steadily as the loa worked, and the dense crowd swayed, many with hands raised.

  "Stand here," Ulises ordered, and Malcolm took position at the back of the ring.

  He felt awkward, the only non-moving person in the entire circle. Unsure what to do with his hands, he clasped them before him but decided it too stiff. He moved a hand to his side to be more casual but found himself holding the wood grip of the gun at his hip. Sliding his hand away, he just tried to focus on the old man slowly pacing the perimeter. Malcolm noticed the drunk teen's one visible eye watching him and couldn't help but wonder if this was about to be some terrible joke at his expense. What the hell was he doing here?

  Ulises reached the far side of the ring and thrust his machete high.

  The drums ceased, and the crowd parted before the unpainted gap. Priests lined the edges as the white-shirted policemen marched the three prisoners though the open valley.

  A pair of loa took the bald man's arms as he entered the ring. Tears stained his dusty cheeks. Searching the crowd desperately, his eyes found a slender woman about Malcolm's age. She put a hand to her mouth as if forcing away her own tears.

  The scarfed woman came next. She scowled indignantly as another pair of loa escorted her in. Finally, the beaten man in the green shorts entered the ring. He kept his eyes downcast and clutched his cuffed hands together.

  A drum sounded, followed by another, loud and ominous. Ulises backed away from the three captives, Hounacier still raised.

  Drums beat again, steadily like a slow pulse. The loa painted the circle closed, completing the ring. Ulises stopped beside Malcolm, and the loa escorts gently pulled their prisoners to the packed ground, laying them on their backs, their heads toward the central post.

  Ulises unleashed a loud whoop, and the drums erupted into a rapid beat. A stream of musical chanting poured from the old man, the strange words completely foreign to Malcolm. The loa danced in and around the circle, unhindered by the painted lines.

  Holding his machete out, sideways across his open palms, Ulises aimed the length of the blade at the bald man, then the woman, and then the cuffed prisoner. His song grew louder, faster as he repeated the chant, gesturing to each person for several seconds before moving to the next.

  Hair and clothing ruffled as if caught in a gust though the heavy, sticky air didn't move. The dancers' fury grew. They jumped and twirled, circling the ring like frenzied sharks. The old bokor's voice was almost a scream as he aimed the side-turned weapon at the bald man. A tremor shuddered through his body and then ceased as Ulises focused on the woman. She began to tremble as well. Ulises continued the sequence, his voice roaring. Each time, whichever prisoner he focused on would shake as if the machete blade were arcing an invisible bolt of lightning.

  The spasms became more intense. Legs and arms moved with impossible speed, a blur of skin and cloth. Malcolm jumped as the scarfed woman screamed, her shrill voice cracking into something deep and inhuman. The unseen bolt moved to the cuffed man beside her. His bound hands pulsed like a jackhammer. In the blur, they appeared to swell. A metallic pop, and one of the steel shackles blew open.

  Wide-eyed, Malcolm stared in horror as the bald man's head seemed to stretch, his mouth jutting forward. One of the woman's legs elongated for a moment. Her sandal popped free and bounced across the circle. The chanting song raged around him. Malcolm's hair whipped in the unfelt wind.

  With a loud rip, the man's shirt split open. A membrane of dark skin stretched beneath his arms to the base of his ribs. He screamed, the tone deepening as iron-like fangs sprouted from his mouth. Ulises howled, stamping his feet as he kept the machete blade aimed at the writhing form.

  Horrified, Malcolm stepped back. Shouts erupted around him as several people in the crowd tried to flee. Policemen drew their weapons, their eyes wide with terror. Ulises continued his chant as loa danced around.

  A pair of short horns burst through the top of the bald man's head. He rolled onto his knees. His legs lengthened, feet curling like hooks.

  Malcolm took another step, about to run when arms seized him from behind.

  "Watch, Milky!" Rum-soaked breath. "Watch her dance."

  The woman in the white scarf and the prisoner in broken handcuffs both scrambled away as the beast stood. Brown, bat-like wings extended outward, nearly twenty feet across. Blade-like claws curled from the fingers atop each wing. It opened ruby eyes and shrieked a piercing scream.

  Gunshots erupted as one of the officers fired his pistol, not caring about the crowd around him. Bloody holes popped open along the creature's skin then closed. The monster spun and hissed.

  Ulises charged.

  He swung the machete, but the beast sprung back with a flap. Leather wings ruffled as it swiped its claws. The old man ducked and spun to the side, Hounacier out before him.

  "Watch her." The teen's grip loosened and slid away. "Learn the steps."

  The beast lunged, snapping its jaws. Ulises lurched back, barely escaping the iron teeth, but on
e of the taloned wings raked his upper arm, splitting open a pair of long cuts down his bicep. The monster moved in. Ulises raised his wounded left arm, displaying his palm. The lidded tattoo opened wide, and the creature recoiled. Keeping the hand up, Ulises thrust Hounacier forward, but the beast flapped and hopped back, landing atop the painted pole.

  Remembering the heavy sawed-off at his hip, Malcolm drew it and aimed the gun in both hands. He pulled the trigger. It didn't move. He squeezed it harder until his finger hurt.

  Ulises ran forward and jumped, slicing the machete down into one of the beast's hooked feet. It screamed and fell backward, wings flailing. It hit the ground with a hard thump, nearly hitting the loa Erzulie. Snarling, it hobbled upright. It snapped its jaws as Ulises dove toward it. He ducked below the attack and hacked the blade into the crook of the monster's neck. Blood exploded from the wound. It thrashed, knocking the flat of a wing hard into Ulises, but he drove the blade up under its ribs.

  Brilliant purple and white fire burst from the wound at the creature's neck. It spread like lit gasoline across its body. Malcolm feared it might burn the old man, but Ulises didn't appear concerned about the flames. He wrenched the blade from the corpse and stood, straddling it. No smoke came from the fire. In fact, it didn't even seem to burn.

  Panting, Ulises turned and met Malcolm's horrified stare. Burning blood dripped from Hounacier's blade. Stepping over the hideous corpse, the tattooed priest approached. Blood from the wound at his arm ran down to his hand. He reached out and touched the end of Malcolm's still-extended gun, gently pushing it down and leaving a pair of red fingerprints.

  Ulises glanced down at the weapon. "The safety is still on."

  Releasing a breath, Malcolm let go of the trigger. His lips shook, struggling to form words. "What…what the fuck!"

  Ulises didn't react to the sudden outburst. "Do you believe, Malcolm Romero?"

  The loa all circled the flaming monster, cradling it. The young woman from the crowd pushed her way forward. Sobbing, she fell to her knees beside it.

  Malcolm sucked a breath, trying to calm himself. His heart still pounded in his ears. "What is that?"