Hounacier (Valducan Book 2)

by Seth Skorkowsky

  #

  A pair of dueling mockingbirds chirped furiously back and forth in the early morning. From the shade of their tree, Malcolm watched well-dressed worshipers entering the almost glowing white church across the street. Aside from the main entrance, framed by an old man and a chunky teen serving as greeters, Saints of Light Church had smaller doors on either side. Malcolm had taken position near the packed, gravel parking lot, surveying that side door and the front. From that position, he could also watch the cinderblock and metal building behind it, which looked like a school gymnasium but white with dark, wooden doors. He felt odd just standing there, half-hidden behind a parked pickup. If he'd had a car, he could watch from inside. Or if he was smoking a cigarette, maybe he wouldn't look as strange. However, Malcolm didn't smoke, and he didn't have any cigarettes to pretend that he did.

  Black eyes hidden behind sunglasses, he searched for familiar faces. By all accounts, nothing looked unusual among the churchgoers. Maybe there was a bit more white in their clothes and the women's scarves than at other churches, but it wasn't overly obvious. Most people would never guess it was a voodoo congregation. It was as inviting and warm as any Christian church.

  Traffic through the doors slowed to a trickle, and Malcolm checked his watch. 8:57. Adjusting his collar, he strolled across the street.

  The old black man was closing the entrance but smiled broadly when Malcolm started up the five concrete steps. "Welcome," he said, offering a folded paper. His gaze locked onto the white bandage across Malcolm's nose then was politely averted. "Beautiful morning."

  "It is." Malcolm accepted the program, his palm down to conceal the tattoo.

  "We're just about to start. Have a seat, brother."

  Malcolm stepped inside, removing his glasses. Low murmurs filled the cozy chapel. Several fans hung from the vaulted ceiling, spinning lazily. Sunlight shone through the three colorful windows on the left side, each painted to look like stained glass. They appeared almost like Catholic saints, though a few differences, such as the yams and avocado in Saint Isidore's bounty, revealed them as the loa they truly represented. Malcolm slid into one of the rear pews, setting Hounacier's bag beside him. He scanned the crowd, hoping to see either Shorty or Cornrows.

  A minute later, voodoo houngan and real-estate agent Earl Warren stepped up to the front, draped in vestments reminiscent of an Episcopal minister. Earl raised his hand, and the congregation rose. Leading songs and prayer, Earl preached with a passion and charisma most priests could only envy. From the back, Malcolm joined the song and prayers while still scanning the audience.

  As the service continued, he grew more and more impressed at what Earl had accomplished. Not only was his flock meeting in a well-made and modern building, they were by far the most diverse group of voodoo practitioners he'd ever witnessed both financially and racially. Earl's dream of bringing a legitimacy to voodoo was well on its way to becoming a reality.

  And that's what made him dangerous.

  For twenty years, Earl had fought, campaigned, and even risked his life to pull his religion out from the shadows of superstition and racial hatred. He'd combated gang wars, homelessness, drug abuse, and domestic violence, all while preaching his faith. People like Ulises and Malcolm represented the darkness and sinister underbelly that, in Earl's mind, demeaned everything he stood for. Earl would die for his dream. Would he kill for it?

  Today's sermon discussed the importance of family. Earl had only begun when his eyes met Malcolm's in the audience. A flash of concern, maybe surprise, then the houngan smiled. His gaze returned to Malcolm several times during the remainder of the service. Malcolm watched for any subtle signs of concern or warning signals the priest might relay to anyone in the room, but Earl didn't seem the least concerned at all. His church was a sanctuary. Reputations on both sides had to be maintained, and Earl knew as well as Malcolm, that they were both safe here. At least for now.

  After two more songs and a closing prayer, the service disbanded. Earl stood at the main doors, chatting and saying farewells. Malcolm remained seated as worshipers shuffled past. Some glanced his way. Most fixated on the bandage and black eyes, but a few looked at Malcolm himself. Curious. Fearful. One plump woman pulled her boy closer to her side as she saw the bokor. Malcolm wondered what all they'd heard about him. Surely, Earl had warned them. Ulises would have been honored to have such looks. The old man had reveled in his mystique.

  Earl gave a small nod as the last of the congregation finally left. He closed the door and returned to the altar, robes swishing. "That's all right, Cedric," he told a young teen extinguishing candles with a long douter. "I'll take care of that. Go on to class."

  "Thank you, sir," Cedric said, handing Earl the cone-tipped rod. He tugged at his black tie and hurried through a side door.

  The priest stepped onto the platform and snuffed a yellow taper. "Happy you came, Malcolm." He extinguished another and turned. "Pleasant surprise to see you there. Ulises never visited."

  "I love what you've done here," Malcolm said, slipping out of the pew. He stifled a grunt as his ribs protested the movement. "Impressive."

  "Thank you." Earl shook his head. "You look like shit."

  Malcolm laughed, winced. "Rough night."

  "You okay?"

  "I'm fine."

  Earl set the douter in a corner and brushed an unseen blemish off his robes. "I heard there was a murder down in Bywater last night. Man got his head cut off."

  "Really?"

  The houngan nodded sadly. "Burned him up in a dumpster," he added, gaze probing.

  Malcolm paused. "I can honestly say I don't know anything about that." He searched Earl's face for any sign he knew more than he'd said. Nothing.

  "Probably drugs. Lord knows." He tapped his nose. "So you goin' to tell me about this?"

  "I had a momentary lapse in judgment."

  Earl's lip twitched like he was going to say more, but he just shook his head. "So what brings you here, Malcolm?"

  "A pair of men have been following me since Friday. I wanted to know if they're yours."

  "Mine?" Earl's nostrils flared, insult mixed with confusion.

  "Yeah. Black. One's tall, cornrows. The other is short, square little face."

  "I don't know anything about this. Are they who did this to you?"

  Malcolm shook his head.

  "Why would you think I sent them?" he asked slowly.

  "You had some strong words back at Paula's shop. Few hours later, those men started following me."

  Earl straightened, chest rising. "That's not how I work, Malcolm. Now, I'm not gonna lie; I have asked about you. It's only fair. But I haven't sent anyone to follow you."

  Malcolm studied the priest's eyes. If he was lying, he was good, but Malcolm had no doubt the businessman was superb.

  "You should tell the police about this."

  "No," Malcolm said. "I'll find out who they are."

  Earl's brow arched. "And how do you intend on doing that?"

  "Just talk to them. Say hello, find out who sent them?"

  "Mal, if these men are dangerous, if they're related to Ulises' murder…"

  "I can take care of myself," Malcolm assured.

  "I know you can do that. I have ears, and I knew Ulises. But this is a job for the police, not you." He clasped his hands before him and squeezed. "I know what Ulises did. And he took care of a lot of bad people, troubled people. But demons, monsters?" He looked around, then whispered, "He murdered those people. You know better than that. That talk scares folks. Zombies and demons and all that Hollywood trash. I turned a blind eye once, but never again. I so much as suspect you hurtin' anybody, I swear you will go to prison."

  Malcolm's jaw tightened, anger boiling in his gut. "If you don't believe in them," he growled, "you should ask the loa about them."

  "The loa talk in riddles, Malcolm. Symbols. You know that as any of us do."

  "Not on this. They're real."

  Earl shook his head regretfu
lly. "I'm sorry you believe that."

  Malcolm chewed his lip. Damn fool. He drew a breath. Held it. "Well, thank you, Earl. I assumed wrong. My apologies."

  Earl looked at him, as if unsure Malcolm was insulting him or not.

  "You have nothing to worry about." Malcolm shouldered Hounacier's bag and turned. He slipped a five into the donation box beside the door. "I really do like what you've done here." He pulled open the oaken doors and stepped out, leaving Earl standing at the altar.

  #

  "Malcolm!" Tasha exclaimed, putting a hand to her lip. "What happened?"

  "Can I come in?"

  "Of course." She opened the apartment door. Tasha wore a curve-hugging, green dress, likely from the morning's mass.

  Malcolm glanced back, searching for his tails. Not seeing them, he stepped inside. Dark wood furniture, too large for her modest place, dominated the apartment. Tattered paperbacks, ranging from theological to cheap spy thrillers, packed a single bookcase. Antique cameras and framed photos filled the cherry shelves on the opposite wall. Two of the pictures were of Malcolm: an artistic black and white of him, long hair framing a crooked smile, and another with his arm around Tasha's shoulder, their faces frozen in laughter after one of her performances. A tangle of various plants surrounded the one large, barred window. It smelled earthy, tinged with her perfume and a faint burnt odor, maybe two days old. Tasha had never been a skilled chef.

  She closed and locked the door and reached for his bandaged nose. "Who did this?"

  "Incubus." Malcolm tugged at his unbuttoned collar, allowing some of the air-conditioned air to flow under his shirt.

  "Incubus?"

  "Yeah." He brushed away her concerned hand. "Big bastard. Like a bodybuilder on PCP."

  "Did you…kill it?"

  He nodded.

  Tasha picked her guitar off of a wine-colored couch and placed it on a black stand. "Sit down. You want something to drink?"

  "Yes please." He grunted, stiffly lowering himself into the seat. "Found him over in Bywater behind some warehouses. There was a succubus too." He pressed a palm against his side. Somehow, the pressure made it feel better despite the pain. "It got away."

  "So…are you all right?"

  Malcolm sighed. "I don't know. Succubi usually don't retaliate. At least not directly. Might charm a victim to do it for her. But…" He shook his head.

  "What?" She offered him a tinkling glass of tea and sat down beside him.

  "I think it was mated. When I found them, they were…occupied with one another. Demon packs are common, but sex…never heard of it between them."

  "Why not?"

  "They don't reproduce." Malcolm sipped the cold tea.

  Tasha shot him a little smirk. "We weren't trying to reproduce."

  He chuckled then winced. "Yeah…you got me there. It's just that the incubus, it tried to protect her." Malcolm pursed his lips. "That doesn't happen."

  "It was protecting its mate from the big bad bokor." She winked.

  "But they don't mate."

  Tasha shrugged. "Obviously, they did."

  Demons mating? The idea of it was ludicrous. Still…the way the incubus had thrown its arm across her. The archives told that cambions, half-breed children of succubi and humans, were possible. But if they could breed with each other? What would that union beget?

  Malcolm gulped his tea, the blocky ice cubes clacking. He set the glass on the table and met Tasha's golden eyes. "There's more. Your dad tell you about the guys that were following me?"

  She nodded.

  "They saw me kill that demon last night. Probably saw the succubus too. Ran away when I spotted them, but," he shook his head, "I was standing over a headless corpse at the time, Hounacier in hand."

  Tasha nodded as if to herself then swallowed. "Well, means they're not cops."

  "It does. Probably not reporters either. Evidently, someone moved the body after I left."

  She cocked her head back. "What?"

  "Paid a visit to Earl Warren this morning. Maybe see if those men were his. He said they weren't."

  Tasha snorted, her full lips curling into a smirk. "He'd say that if they were."

  "True. But he also asked me about a murder down there last night. Said someone burned the body up in a dumpster."

  "But…you didn't?" she asked.

  Malcolm shook his head. "I left it in an alley. Some of my blood in it. Once I saw those two run away, I just got out of there."

  "So you think they moved it?"

  "Don't know. Swinging by the crime scene wouldn't be a good idea right now. Not if it's still there. And especially if Earl suspects me. No telling how many cops he knows." Malcolm ran a finger along his jaw. "But if you could give me a ride, we could drive past, casual, let me get a peek to see if the police are around."

  Tasha's brow furrowed into a glare. "So you want us both to go by a crime scene that you just said the police might be watching out for you?"

  "Yeah, but we'll be in a car. I'll keep low. Better than walking down the street with the murder weapon on me."

  Her glare didn't waver. "Uh huh. Speaking of which, if I were to do this, which I'm not saying I will, Hounacier stays here."

  Malcolm opened his mouth, but her finger shot up, silencing him.

  "No. I'm not getting pulled over by the police with a suspect and a murder weapon inside my car. Period."

  Malcolm closed his mouth and nodded slowly. "Agreed."

  #

  Chartress Street looked even shittier during the daylight hours than it had at night. Boarded and broken windows peered out from a quarter of the building. Neglect and decay had consumed the rest. Many so afflicted with peeling paint, crumbling brickwork, and unkempt vegetation, Malcolm preferred to think of it as some grand, intentional art piece rather than the sad and rotting truth. The big exception was the two steel warehouses, immaculate and the color of freshly fallen snow, safely walled off behind high chain-link topped with coiled razor wire.

  A few cars travelled the narrow street. Malcolm sat low in the seat beside Tasha, searching for any sign of police, finding none. "Up here." He motioned to the row of small warehouses beside the empty lot. "Keep slow. Not too much though."

  He peered at the alley entrance where the demons had been. No yellow police tape. No officers or reporters. Nothing. Malcolm tried to twist for a better look as they passed but hissed, the sharp pain in his ribs stopping him.

  "You all right?" Tasha's death-grip on the wheel revealed just how much she truly hated bringing him here.

  Malcolm sniffed, forcing away the pain. "I'm fine."

  "You gone to a doctor?"

  "No. Picked up some ibuprofen this morning, but…"

  Tasha laughed. "Jesus, Mal. You're thick sometimes. You know that?"

  "Doctors ask questions. Turn around up here. Give it one more pass."

  She pulled into the tiny parking lot for an abandoned eatery, and wheeled the little hatchback around. Malcolm studied the alley as they neared, seeing the black hole where the incubus had punched through the metal wall. The corpse was gone. Son of a bitch. Who moved it? He strummed the gray armrest. And why?

  "That it?" Tasha asked after another block.

  Malcolm nodded. "That's all I needed. Thank you."

  "Good. Now let's get your fool ass something for the pain."

  "No hospitals," Malcolm said, desperate to get back to Hounacier. They'd left her hidden in Tasha's apartment, locked in an old armoire. What if someone broke in? She needed protection.

  Tasha shot him a sidelong glance. "Who said anything about a hospital?"

  "What?"

  She blew out an exasperated breath. "Seriously, Mal, have you forgotten where we are?"

  #

  "Tasha," Maggie said, opening the door. "How are you doing?"

  "Good," Tasha said, hugging the voodoo queen. "How are you?"

  "Irritated. Guest comin' tonight. Louis insisted on cookin' for it. Kicked me out of my own kitchen." Maggie
looked at Malcolm standing on the porch behind Tasha. "Boo, what happened?"

  "You know…" He plucked a dead leaf off a hanging plant. "Fighting."

  She nodded, a knowing look on the old woman's face.

  "He won't go to a doctor," Tasha said. "I was wondering if you could help him out."

  "Of course, baby. You know I will." Maggie's gaze lowered to Malcolm's empty hands. "Just the two of you, I see," a subtle smile to her voice. "Come on inside; we're lettin' the cold out."

  Malcolm followed Tasha inside. A pair of women sat on the couch, talking to a bald man with a thick, gold hoop dangling from one ear. A trio of kids, Malcolm guessed between the ages of five and nine, sat on the floor, watching cartoons. The smell of sautéing onions awoke his empty stomach. Through the open kitchen doorway, he saw a hefty, olive-skinned man in an apron working above a sizzling skillet.

  "Come back this way," Maggie said, closing the front door.

  Malcolm smiled hello to the seated strangers, their faces familiar but names forgotten, and followed the old woman through the hallway.

  "Here we are," Maggie said, opening a bedroom door. "Little privacy. Sit on the bed there."

  Malcolm did as he was told. He scanned the collection of old photographs and decades of shadowboxed Mardi Gras memorabilia.

  "Okay now," Maggie said, pulling a wooden chair up before him. "Let's see what we got. Open your shirt up."

  Malcolm gave a surprised look.

  "I saw the way you walked in here. Been doin' this since before you was born." She stabbed a slender finger toward him and twirled it around. "Open it up."

  Tasha frowned as Malcolm peeled open his shirt, revealing the hideous purple bruise. Maggie's expression remained neutral. "Fightin'? Looks like you were on the losin' side." Her fingers traced along his ribs, earning a pained wince. "Don't feel broke. That's a blessin'. So Malcolm, you spend some time in Bywater last night?"

  "Rumors get around fast," Malcolm said.

  Maggie shrugged. "People tell me things. It's my job to know where all my kids are. Tasha, could you go to my bedroom closet and bring me back the red first aid kit? Also the little box under my nightstand. You know the one."