Hounacier (Valducan Book 2)

by Seth Skorkowsky

  "Would you like something to drink?" Atabei asked, leading him down the hall. Dog nails clacked along the wooden floor behind him.

  "Please." Refusing the offer could be as dangerous as accepting it. He'd learned early never to insult a voodoo priestess.

  "Sadie," Atabei stepped into a room with a pair of plump couches and several large chairs. Everything was new and high-end. "Please bring us some lemonade."

  "Of course, ma'am." A chubby woman with tight braids and eyes just a little too close together rose from a chair and hurried into an adjoining room.

  Atabei gestured with a long hand. "Have a seat, Doctor."

  "Thank you." Malcolm took the chair opposite hers, a small rectangular table between them, its polished surface interlocking insets of exotic woods. He rested Hounacier's bag across his lap. A huge shrine dominated the side wall where a television might normally be.

  "I would like to apologize for Quentin and Errol frightening you the other night. That was not their intention."

  "I appreciate their help rectifying it." Malcolm's thumb slid along the bag's black canvas. "But why were they following me?"

  She smiled, almost embarrassed. "They were…looking out for you. Ulises was a dear friend, and I didn't want anything to happen to you," she looked at the bag, "or to Hounacier. May I see her?"

  Malcolm ran his tongue across the backs of his teeth. If he did need her, having her out would be to his advantage. "Of course." He reached inside the zippered maw and pulled the machete free.

  Atabei leaned forward, brown eyes transfixed on the sheathed holy weapon. She touched her plump lips. "I remember seeing her, many years ago when Ulises was travelling Haiti. Beautiful. Her own loa."

  Ulises had always said that too. Called Hounacier the loa that lived only within the blade. In a way, he was right.

  "He loved her," Atabei continued. "He spoke of her quite often." She smiled. "And of you."

  The door opened, and Sadie walked in carrying a pair of glasses.

  "Thank you," Malcolm said, accepting one.

  She handed the other to Atabei. "Can I get you anything else?"

  Malcolm shook his head.

  "No," Atabei said. "That's all."

  The plump woman smiled and left. Before the kitchen door closed behind her, Malcolm spied a familiar face leaning against the counter, eating. Shorty.

  Atabei sipped her lemonade, watching him over the rim. Malcolm lifted the glass to his mouth and sniffed. It smelled real. Not the powdered crap. He touched it to his lips, allowing only a drop through. He tensed, waiting to see if the serpent tattoo encircling his bicep tightened. It warned him of poisons. Satisfied, Malcolm took a long drink and set the glass on a little wooden coaster.

  "Now, you said you were looking out for me. Do you know who killed Ulises?"

  The priestess let out a long breath and shook her head. "I don't. But I do know what stalks our streets. Once I'd heard of Ulises' murder, I went to check on the mask of his, hopefully retrieve it before someone took it. But Mister Luison had already rescued it."

  Malcolm straightened, pressing into the soft chair back. "You know of the mask?"

  "Of course," she said with a smile. "I made it."

  "You?" Malcolm blinked. "You made that?"

  "I did."

  "How?" he asked, the first of a dozen questions suddenly whirling through his mind.

  "I can draw…exorcise the demon out then transfer its essence into another vessel."

  "Not just masks?"

  Atabei shook her head. "No. Demons can possess animals too. Or jewelry. Even a weapon. Just as long as the animal or material is one linked to the demon."

  An unholy weapon? A nameless chill wormed up Malcolm's spine. What could such a thing do? "So, obsidian for the ghoul."

  "Yes. One of the reasons I sought out Ulises was to learn about the different minerals and how they work. I hadn't known how many breeds there were until after I'd made my first masks. He taught me a lot. I only wish we'd had more time together."

  Malcolm blinked. "Masks? There's more than one?"

  "Of course. I couldn't kill them, so I had to put them somewhere."

  "How many?"

  "Three." She licked her lips. "I was in Port-au-Prince. After the earthquake, there was talk of creatures eating the dead and stalking the camps. Three of them. It took some weeks to get them all and…two of my friends." She sipped her lemonade, washing away the mournful expression.

  A weight formed in Malcolm's stomach, heavy and familiar. Ulises had wanted Malcolm to go after the quake, but Malcolm had been chasing down an itwan in Armenia with three other knights. It was eight months before he'd finally made it to Haiti. It had been his last visit. Ulises never forgave him for that. They were hunting them themselves, he thought. Untrained. No holy weapons. Surely, he could have gone. Helped out.

  No. If he hadn't been in Armenia, two knights might have died. Being in Haiti alone, especially during the aftermath, would have been too risky. They had to work as teams. It ensured survival for them and the weapons. Malcolm realized his grip had tightened around Hounacier's scabbard. He drank some more of his lemonade, swallowing back the regret. "How did you learn to do this?"

  "It wasn't easy," she said. "My husband died many years ago because of a demon. I wanted to know how to destroy them. Save others from his fate. I spoke to priests, learned hoodoo. I met an exorcist once. He explained how faith can draw the spirit free. Consulted loa. It was years. But all I could do was trap them. Destroying them…" She shook her head.

  "So you came to Ulises?"

  "Yes. Ulises was like the Baron." She lifted a finger, moving it with each word like a conductor's wand. "When he came to your town, you knew…death was with him."

  "But also life," Malcolm added.

  "There were many funerals before he'd come. Then, only one. The last."

  "Do you know why anyone would kill him?"

  Atabei shook her head. "No. Ulises was loved but feared. I don't know who could have done it."

  "Anyone you suspect?"

  "A few," she said with a reluctant shrug. "As long as his killer is out there, none of us are safe."

  Dishes rattled, muffled through the kitchen door. Footsteps echoed from somewhere above.

  Malcolm tried to keep track of them. Four people at least. "Then why did you wait until now to contact me?"

  She glanced down at her hands in her lap, fingers twisting. "I did not know you. And after some of the things Ulises told me, I did not know your convictions."

  "Convictions?"

  "Your…dedication. How far you will go to kill these monsters. It was difficult to approach you with my proposal until I knew your dedication."

  Malcolm cocked his head. "What proposal?"

  "There is a killer on the loose in this city. A monster. I want you to help me. With your help, I can draw it out, put it into an animal, and then you can kill it. No one has to die. I will do all in my power to help you find Ulises' murderer, but I ask this first before more people are killed."

  Malcolm drew a long breath, studying the woman's face. She seemed sincere. His instincts told him not to trust her. But she was connected. She claimed a power that the Valducans had only ever heard of. What if she really could do as she claimed? "You said there were three ghoul masks."

  "Yes."

  "Can I see them?"

  She smiled. "Of course. But they are not here."

  "Where are they?"

  "They are protecting others that the demon is after."

  Malcolm swallowed. Demons didn't usually single out a specific victim. Not without reason. "After them how?"

  "It wants their souls." She drew a heavy sigh. "We do not know where the monster is. I need you to summon it as Ulises could."

  Malcolm frowned. He hadn't performed a summoning in years and never without Ulises' guidance. "It's not that simple. I need at least three souls the demon has marked."

  "Is that all?" she asked as if it was somethin
g mundane, like he'd asked for a Coke.

  He suppressed a snort. "No. But that's the hard part. Three demon-bound are nearly impossible to gather. And that's the minimum just for a lower breed. Vampire would need four. Rakshasa six. After that, I'd require a sanctified ring. And no one to bother us."

  Atabei seemed to look through him, contemplating his words. She traced a finger along her jaw, stopping at her chin. "I think it would be best if I showed you something."

  Chapter Ten

  Malcolm sat in the back of a pearl-colored SUV, Hounacier's bag across his lap. Outside the window, the sprawl of tiny homes gave way to industrial complexes, giant fuel depots, and then county highway. The quaint, suburban houses eventually yielded to the lush, green forests of the bayou. Shorty, whose real name was Errol, sat beside him, watching the trees though his own window. He stank of some cheap, vanilla-scented cologne. Still, it was better than the lingering reek of cigarette smoke that had clung to Malcolm since back at the cafe. He wondered about that pistol he'd spotted at Errol's waist the other night. If he was wearing it, he didn't show. Sitting in a car seat with a gun in your spine was real uncomfortable. He was either very experienced with the hard discomfort or wore it somewhere else. Malcolm seriously doubted that Errol wasn't armed, and there was plenty of room under that triple-extra-large jersey of his.

  Cornrows, now Quentin, drove. Quentin was soft-spoken, his country Creole accent somehow impervious to the modern media that had diluted so many others. There was a hard wariness to his blue eyes. They made an unsettling contrast to his dark skin. It had been Quentin who had carried the near-headless corpse to that dumpster and burned it. Errol had been quick to mention that he'd been the one that hosed the blood off the kill site as if that were somehow comparable. Police usually didn't shoot at you for spraying water and kicking gravel around like they did for incinerating naked corpses.

  Atabei sat in the front, hands in her lap, fingers laced. Several bracelets circled her wrists, heavy with charms: beads of bone and ceramic, a couple silver coins, and other talismans. Malcolm thought about her claim of demon-bound jewelry. What would that do? Nothing good, he thought. Would she risk wearing something like that?

  After a few minutes, they turned at a trailer park and continued down a narrow strip of road. Tree branches arched above like the rafters in some ancient cathedral, draped with tattered banners of Spanish moss. Through the blur of tree trunks and foliage, Malcolm could see patches of brackish water coming nearly to the edge of the elevated road. His ribs panged with each bump and bounce. Eventually, Quentin pulled the vehicle onto a dirt drive. Errol hopped out and opened a rusty gate. He closed it behind them then climbed back in.

  Malcolm shifted on the leather seat. Whatever surprise Atabei had was coming, and he wasn't really sure what to expect. Before they'd left, he'd gone to the restroom and sent a text to Allan, letting the Valducans know what was going on just in case.

  The road turned, and the forest opened up into an enormous field. Two other vehicles sat parked in the grass to one side. On the other, at least a dozen shipping containers of various colors formed a giant ring, nearly filling the open span. A few looked as though someone had taken a scrap torch to them, cutting windows and doors. Wooden ladders and even stairs connected to the upper stacked boxes, forming a second story on some. It reminded Malcolm of a training course Nick had once made in order to prepare knights for raids.

  A slender woman in a straw, wide-brimmed hat looked up from a fenced garden just outside the ring and waved. Malcolm noticed the black shotgun leaning against the post only a few feet away. Beyond it, chickens pecked and strutted inside a wide, caged coop.

  Quentin parked the vehicle beside an old Saturn.

  "We're here," Atabei said, and opened her door.

  Malcolm tongued the back of his teeth, drew a breath, then opened his own door. The sticky, Louisiana heat came down like an enormous hand. Black and red insects buzzed around, flying between the flowering weeds. Letting the others take the lead, he followed Atabei to where the gardener stood.

  "Nice to see you, Miss Cross." The woman pulled a pair of grimy gloves from her hands.

  "How are you today, Kiesha?" Atabei asked.

  "Oh, I'm doin' fine. Tomatoes are comin' along real good," Keisha said, sweeping her hand with an air of gardener's pride. "Started some leeks over there."

  Malcolm half-listened while the two women talked. Over Keisha's shoulder, he spied the back of a crude figure like a scarecrow made of lashed straw and animal bones, facing outside toward the woods. He guessed its face would be a painted wooden mask. Glancing to the left, he spotted another one far to the side. It, too, stood at a man's height, bright string holding it to a carved post. Although he couldn't see them beyond the container village, he knew he would find two more, also facing the cardinal points. Standard hoodoo ward for protection, just larger than he'd normally encountered. Maybe later, he'd get a chance to have a closer look, see the specific totems used.

  "So, the others around?" Atabei asked.

  "Nah," Keisha said with a shake of her head. "Gabe and Peewee went into town 'bout half-hour ago. Should be back soon."

  Atabei motioned her head toward the container ring. "And our guests?"

  "Oh, they're fine." She lowered her voice. "Leigh Ann's been cryin' for her mamma."

  Atabei sighed and nodded. "Nothing we can do about that. At least not yet." She gestured to Malcolm. "This is Doctor Romero. He's Ulises' boy."

  Keisha's baggy eyes widened. "Oh! Oh, it's so good to meet you, Doctor." She offered a hand. "Keisha LaFargue."

  Malcolm displayed his palm.

  She looked at it, forehead crinkled in a confused expression.

  "Pleasure to meet you, ma'am" he said, shaking her hand.

  "Keisha's one of the people taking care of our guests," Atabei said, like that was supposed to mean something to him." She turned back to the gardener. "Can we see them?"

  "Oh course. Of course," Keisha gushed. She moved toward the leaning shotgun, but Atabei stopped her.

  "That's all right. We've got it."

  "Are you sure?"

  The priestess nodded. "We'll be fine. Doctor Romero is here if we have trouble." She gave Malcolm a cryptic smile. "Thank you, Keisha."

  Malcolm nodded goodbye to the woman and followed Atabei and the two men past a dingy green container and into the ring itself. The ground inside was packed flat, devoid of vegetation save weeds alongside steel boxes. A thick post jutted from the great ring's center, standing over ten feet high. Carved animal and human faces adorned the dark wood like a totem pole, but more African in design.

  They crossed the arena to one of the boxes, a red one, sun-faded to a mottled pink. A small window air-conditioner hummed at its back end, dripping condensation into a tiny mud puddle. Someone had built a tight cage around the unit with rebar, the silver weld points glinting new in the sunlight. Beside it, a steel winch, like the kind used to pull a fishing boat onto a trailer, was bolted in place, its blue, plastic-coated cable running inside through a little slit. There were no windows in this box. Only a pair of window-shaped clusters of cut holes, each about as big around as a finger.

  Quentin lifted the side of his shirt and reached for a pistol tucked at his hip.

  Shit! Expecting a trap, Malcolm's hand slid into Hounacier's bag, gripping her handle. Quentin, not seeming to pay him any attention, drew a black snub-nose and strolled around to the container front. Malcolm looked at Atabei.

  The priestess saw his hand in the bag. "You might need that." She nodded in Quentin's direction, urging him to follow. Errol was approaching the winch. He slipped his hand up the front of his jersey and drew a pistol out from the front of his huge shorts. Nick used to call people that did that idiots. Said they would panic, grab the gun, and squeeze the trigger in excitement or get it tangled in their clothes and blow their dicks off. Guaranteed way to spot an amateur.

  "Go on," Atabei said.

  Malcolm drew Hounaci
er from her sheath and followed Quentin, trying to keep his eye on Errol and on the black little holes drilled into the air-conditioned container. He rounded the corner, and the scarab tattoo itched, starting its dance.

  A pair of black, obsidian masks stood maybe neck high atop a post, dead even between the container and the one opposite. They were just like the one in Jim's shop. Withered, leering skulls, their eyes tiny orbs set in deep sockets. They were attached back to back, each facing a container door.

  Quentin stood there, his pale eyes on the holy machete, revolver down at his side. "Be sure not to get in front of the mask."

  "What is this?" Malcolm asked.

  "It's for our safety." He banged lightly on the steel door and peered through a slot cut eye-level. "Coming in. Against the wall." After a couple seconds, he called, "Okay!"

  Ratcheting clicks came from the back of the box as Errol worked the winch. "Locked!"

  Quentin nodded to Malcolm. "Don't get in front of the mask." He popped open the door.

  The stink of humanity, unwashed and oily, wafted from the open door. A mattress lay in one corner near a table bolted to the wall, a few books atop it. A small radio sat on a white, plastic chair. Closer to the door, a shower curtain hung from a ring. The stink of urine and feces emanated from the blue, plastic toilet visible inside.

  Malcolm's jaw tightened as he saw a young man, maybe twenty, his clothes crumpled and stained, standing against the far wall, his head turned away and eyes scrunched. "What is this?"

  Grass crunched as Atabei came around beside him. "He's marked. Found him a couple weeks ago. Bitten. We patched him up and brought him here. Gary," she said with a mother's voice. "Gary, this is Malcolm. He's going to help you."

  The man's eyes, hidden behind greasy brown hair, glanced up at Malcolm for only a moment.

  Malcolm stepped closer, Hounacier out front. His hair rustled in the window unit's cool blast. Atabei followed. He noticed the round, white, metal collar around the man's neck, just below the unkempt beard. "Silver?"

  "Yes."

  "Gary," he said, stopping just a few feet from the trembling man.