Hounacier (Valducan Book 2)

by Seth Skorkowsky

  Panting, his body panged with each breath. Gulmet stopped behind a spray-painted cattle car and allowed his flesh-form to return to human.

  Malcolm's knees buckled as the demon's weight lifted away. The burning pain of the blessed slugs dimmed, feeling numb in comparison to how they'd hurt before. He gasped and pressed his arm against the hole in his side and hand across the caked belly wound. Wisps of Vimiya's fiery blood still burned along his chest and ragged shirt. Malcolm tried to wipe them off, but they only smeared, their light faded.

  He was dying. The demon knew it too. It'd left him here to bleed out. "Good shot, Matt." Malcolm coughed.

  A soft breeze coursed down the valley of tracks, cooling his sweat-soaked skin. He brushed the hair from his face to feel it on his forehead. Malcolm smiled. He had done that. Ever since Atabei had cursed him, he'd never had full control of anything. Now, as he died, he had it back. He could make his own decisions, think his own thoughts.

  His mind wandered to Hounacier. Did she miss him? Was Atabei treating her well? I want to see her, he thought. One last time.

  Wincing, Malcolm pulled himself up and started walking. Atabei's house was only a few short blocks across the canal. He clutched his wounds and started toward the drawbridge only a hundred yards away. His death was inevitable. Dämoren's bullets had seen to that. Removing them might save him, but Gulmet would only take him again. If he was going to die, Malcolm was going to express his newfound freedom the only way he could. He would die by Hounacier. He could make that walk, and if he couldn't, he'd at least die trying.

  Malcolm staggered over the rocks but managed to find momentum. He didn't look up, just one foot in front of the other. He could make it. Car noise hummed ahead, growing closer.

  The bleeding seemed to have slowed. At least the jelly-like clumps had stopped growing as fast. But the external bleeding was only a small part, and he tried not to think of the blood and fluids pouring all though his shredded insides. Probably why he was so thirsty.

  Before he knew it, he'd reached the trash-strewn underpass. It stank of smoke and piss and cigarettes. Grimy faces watched him from the shadows. He continued though, pretending he couldn't see them.

  "Malcolm."

  He looked up, seeing a bearded man in a threadbare T-shirt hobbling toward him.

  The stranger held up a hand. "Malcolm, wait."

  "I can't," Malcolm said to the unknown loa.

  Another figure stepped out from behind one of the square, concrete pillars. He popped a lens from a plastic pair of sunglasses and put them on. "Milky, you're hurtin'."

  Malcolm met Papa Ghede's single eye. "I'm going to Hounacier then to Ulises."

  "Who did this to you?" the first loa asked. Malcolm now recognized Legba's lilting accent. "We can help."

  "Atabei." Malcolm shook his head. "And you can't."

  "We can help you," Ghede pleaded.

  Malcolm kept walking. Reaching the opposite side of the underpass, he started up the slope. He looked back at the two loa still standing there. "Goodbye."

  Legba said something after him, but the rumble of traffic drowned it out.

  Malcolm clenched his teeth and followed the footpath up to the bridge. Cars raced past, their lights blinding. He crawled over the low concrete wall onto the road and started across, the oncoming cars to his back. They whooshed past, not even slowing. He must have made a pitiful sight, barefoot in shredded, filthy clothes, hobbling along the foot-wide shoulder. The thirst was worsening, but he continued, one foot in front of the other. He still expected to feel the next bullet come—maybe he wouldn't even feel it—but it didn't. He crossed the dark canal and over into the Ninth Ward.

  Once finally reaching the bottom, he looked back, but Matt wasn't there. Didn't matter anyway.

  He'd made it halfway to Atabei's now, and faint renewal sparked in his tired legs. He could make it. He could see Hounacier one last time. "Kuquo," he muttered, speaking her name for the first time.

  The streets off the main road were dark. The gut shot had started bleeding again, running down Malcolm's leg. He walked, barely noticing his surroundings. He should, he thought. This was the last street he'd ever see. He should take it in, but he couldn't. Instead, he thought of how much he wished he could thank Jim for taking him in, tell Maggie goodbye, and thank Matt for getting Maggie and Alpuente out of that house and also for setting him free. Most of all, he wished he had bothered to tell Tasha how much he still loved her, how much he regretted breaking her heart when he left and how he hoped she might forgive him one day. Soon, he'd meet Bondye, God. He'd meet Ulises beyond the crossroads and apologize for being such a poor son. He'd see Colin, Marcus, Ben, and so many friends now gone, so many he'd had to kill. He hoped they forgave him

  Faint drumming worked into his consciousness as he drew closer. Malcolm looked up to see smoke rising from behind Atabei's fenced block ahead. From the sounds of it, the priestess had company. At least I get to crash one final party. He smiled at the dumb joke.

  He shuffled across the street and followed the earthen path that served as the sidewalk around to Atabei's castle-like home. Whoops and shouts accompanied the rapid drums beyond the high fence. A single yellow light burned above a door beside the car gate. Malcolm stopped, rose to the highest he could, and knocked.

  Metal rattled, and the door cracked open. Sadie peered out, and her narrow-spaced eyes widened.

  Malcolm slid a foot though the gate door before she could slam it shut. "I want to see Atabei."

  The chubby woman stepped back, mouth open, then ran. "Mama Atabei! It's here, Mama Atabei!" The drums faltered then stopped.

  Malcolm pushed his way through. Figures stood silhouetted against a high fire beside the carved post. Many rose from a row of benches to one side while others sat and watched Malcolm's slow approach.

  Sogbo and Bade stood far to the side, leashed to a post, watching. Maybe they still remembered the monster they'd seen and wouldn't bark. The crowd parted as he neared, and Atabei stood at the heart of the ring, firelight flickering across her white dress and glinting off Hounacier's blade in her hand.

  Malcolm squinted, smoke stinging his eyes. "I'm ready."

  "He killed Peewee," a woman said.

  Atabei's cold eyes watched him near. She raised the machete beside her, standing proud, but Malcolm only watched the blade. He should have felt hatred for her, but he couldn't. All he felt was the joy of seeing Hounacier again.

  The worshipers peeled away from their circle, moving behind Atabei.

  Malcolm stopped at the edge of the chalk-drawn ring. "Do it," he coughed, his eyes still on the machete. "Set me free." Then he whispered, "Kuquo."

  "So you admit I am Hounacier's master?" she asked, taking a step.

  "I admit she is no longer mine. But no one is her master."

  Her lips drew into a satisfied sneer. "Kneel, demon."

  Malcolm stood tall, his knees threatening to buckle. He would not kneel for her. He lowered the hand from his gut, letting the blood flow. It didn't matter now.

  Atabei stepped closer and raised the machete high. A drum began beating, followed by another. Malcolm lifted his chin, readying for the blow.

  "This is for Hercule!" She swung. Hounacier's blade stopped a foot from Malcolm's neck as if it had hit a tree trunk. It quivered, resisting her the way it resisted him when giving a blessing. She took it in both hands, fighting the blade, pushing it toward him.

  In that moment, Malcolm realized his mistake. Hounacier had never renounced him. She hadn't broken the bond. Gulmet had hidden it from his mind. She loved him still and fought against killing him. The demon's deception had worked. Somewhere deep inside, he heard Gulmet's laughter.

  Malcolm found his anger.

  Atabei swung the machete again. The blade slowed but came down. Malcolm tried to move but fell back onto the packed ground. In a frustrated grunt, she thrust down at him. The blade bent, missing his heart, but still bit into his left arm.

  Malcolm cried ou
t. He tried to crawl away on his back, but he was too weak. If Hounacier still loved him, then there was hope, but he couldn't make himself move. Darkness wormed at the edges of his vision. He'd lost.

  Atabei screamed, raising the blade point down, ready to drive it into him.

  An engine roared.

  The priestess stumbled back as a blue flatbed pickup smashed though the perimeter fence, its headlights cutting twin beams through the smoky yard. The truck's doors flew open, and the homeless Papa Ghede hopped out, laughing like a madman, followed by Legba. Matt swung from the driver's seat, Dämoren in one hand and the Mac-10 slung over his shoulder. He leveled the machine pistol at the white Lexus twenty feet beside him. A foot-long flame spewed from the barrel in a loud rip.

  Screams erupted as the worshipers, even Atabei, scattered.

  Matt strode across the emptying yard, smoking Mac-10 leveled before him, and Dämoren trained on Malcolm.

  "There you are, Milky," Ghede said, sauntering up. "You ran away."

  Legba came around the side and knelt beside Malcolm. Sores pitted the homeless man's cheeks and forehead. "He is weak. We haven't much time."

  "Hounacier…" Malcolm mumbled.

  "He's dying," Matt said. "He's in pain."

  The firelight reflected in Ghede's single lens. "Pain tells us we're alive."

  Malcolm blinked, trying to focus on Matt. "The bond…still there."

  "We can save him," Legba said. "But we must go."

  "Spencer, you get him in the truck." Ghede rose to his feet and hurried off. "I'll get the mask."

  Chapter Nineteen

  "You sure this will hold him?" Matt asked, tightening Sogbo's leather collar around Malcolm's wrists.

  "He ain't going nowhere." Papa Legba scratched the now docile Rottweiler behind the ear. "Is he, boy?"

  Malcolm grunted in pain as Matt heaved him up into the truck's cab and moved him into a sitting position on the bench seat. The engine still rumbled. He looked up to see Ghede prancing out Atabei's back door and down the steps, bottle in one hand, silver wolf mask in the other.

  "I got 'em," he said, grinning.

  "That's not the ghoul mask," Matt said.

  "Don't need it. Don't worry, Spence, ain't like it can walk away."

  "What if she takes it?"

  "Then we'll know where to find it." Ghede grinned. "Stop worryin' about it."

  Papa Legba snapped his fingers and pointed to Bade, still chained across the yard. "Go." Sogbo ran where the loa ordered. Legba turned to Matt. "You too. The others should be there by now. I'll go to prepare." His eyes rolled back. He staggered back, nearly falling. Shaking his head, he looked around. "Where…?"

  "Go on home, Jeffrey," Ghede said.

  The man looked up to see Malcolm bound and bleeding in the truck. Then his gaze locked on Matt's gun. "Shit!"

  Ghede laughed as the man ran away. "And stop stealing Tishaun's smokes!" He swigged his rum and turned to Matt. "Get in. I'll drive."

  "Where are we taking him?" Matt asked.

  "The crossroads. Get in." He ran around to the driver's side and climbed up into the seat beside Malcolm. He reeked of body odor.

  Matt squeezed into the passenger seat on the other side. He held Dämoren across his lap, pointed at Malcolm. "Don't try anything."

  Malcolm eyed at the gun and snorted. "Don't…worry…about me." He rolled his head toward Ghede. "Can…you drive?"

  Grinning, the loa took the wheel. "Never had to before."

  "Wait," Matt said, his voice rising an octave. "You can't—"

  Papa Ghede threw the truck into reverse and slammed the accelerator. Malcolm jolted forward, nearly coming out of his seat as the truck bounced over the broken fence and into the street. Papa Ghede cackled in unbridled joy as he wrenched the wheel around and mashed the brakes. "Hold on!"

  Malcolm pressed his weak legs against the floorboard as the loa found the gear, hit the gas, and took off down the dark streets. His sweat-slicked hair whipped in the wind from the open windows.

  "Jesus!" Matt fought with his seatbelt, trying to buckle it one-handed.

  "Not quite," Ghede said. Tires squealed as he slung the truck around a hard turn and clipped a mailbox. He wrestled with the wheel, jerking them side to side, before leveling out and continuing on. "Lucky we found you, Milky. Why did you leave?"

  "I…I didn't know Hounacier still loved me."

  "'Course she loves you. Till death do you part, and The Baron hasn't come for you yet. But he will unless we get you to him first."

  "Baron Samedi?"

  "He's the only one that can save your life." Papa Ghede knocked back his rum, spilling some down his chin. "But you have to save your soul."

  Malcolm nodded absently, unsure what the loa meant. "Why…didn't you get Hounacier…from…Atabei?"

  "Why?" Papa Ghede shot an insulted glare. "You're her husband." He shook his head and laughed. "That's your job."

  "Will you watch the road?" Matt hissed, clutching the handle above the door.

  "Don't worry, Spence." He hooked a right onto Claiborne.

  A car horn blared, the driver's mouth an angry "O."

  Ghede thrust his head out the open window and yelled back, "You watch that mouth, Timothy, or I'll tell your mama about what's hidden in your closet!" He laughed.

  Malcolm watched his bound hands in his lap, not wanting to see the road. Fresh blood pooled in the nook of his wrist. If Dämoren's bullets didn't kill him, the loa's driving surely would. He imagined the police response to that wreck. Stolen truck, homeless drunk at the wheel, Malcolm's hands bound with two silver bullets in him, Matt with an antique revolver and a machine gun. Headline material if there ever was.

  "Now, as I was saying, don't worry. I'll get you home to Luiza before her titties get all plump."

  "What?" Matt asked.

  "Her titties." The truck started the incline up the bridge.

  "How do you know all this? How did you know she's pregnant?"

  The loa roared with laughter. He leaned down, his face close enough to bathe Malcolm in rum-soaked breath. "Oh, he's fun. You never told him about Papa Ghede?"

  "Sorry," Malcolm mumbled. Darkness worked at the edges of his vision.

  "Milky and I go way back. I was there when he met his lady."

  Malcolm's head sank lower. The roar of the wind and traffic grew distant.

  "Why do you keep calling him that?"

  "Why don't you, Spencer Mallory?"

  Malcolm closed his heavy eyelids.

  "That's not my name anymore?"

  "Your name is your name," Papa Ghede chuckled. "That reminds me of…"

  A cool numbness rolled up Malcolm's body like sliding into a still, black sea…floating…the shore growing distant, its lights sinking below the horizon.

  "Malcolm!" Ghede screamed in his ear.

  Malcolm bolted upright, eyes wide.

  Ghede shook his head, his single visible eye narrow. "Don't you be doin' that. We're too close now."

  Licking his lips, Malcolm looked out the window. How long was I out? They were barreling toward the I10. Matt watched him with hard eyes, his jaw tight. He looked terrified, and Malcolm didn't blame him. "I'm sorry…about attacking you. It was…in control. I didn't even know it, and when I did…I couldn't stop it."

  Matt just looked at him. "Are you in control now?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you sure?"

  Malcolm's lips parted to answer, but he looked away. "No."

  "Move!" Papa Ghede shouted, blaring the horn as he ran a red light. They shot up the on ramp and onto the highway. "Now we're movin'." He slapped the wheel like a child with a drum.

  Still not wanting to see the road, Malcolm focused hard on the dash before him. How had he been so fooled into thinking Hounacier had broken her bond? He should have known. If he had, he'd…what? What could he have done? The demon had controlled every move he'd made since it'd taken him. No, not every move. He'd taken control. If he'd known, Malcolm could have fou
ght Gulmet harder. Hounacier still loved him. Malcolm had to live.

  Ghede was yammering away about tits and laughing at his own jokes. Malcolm kept his eyes on the dash, ignoring him, and trying to keep his breath steady. Finally, Ghede hung a hard turn onto Jackson, and Malcolm realized where they were going.

  A few blocks later, they turned onto a narrow street. The stained glass windows of Saints of Light Church were dark, but nearly twenty cars filled the little lot. Figures hurried in and out the gymnasium doors, silhouetted by the lights inside.

  "Looks like they're here." Ghede pulled into the gravel drive and slid to a stop beside a police car. "Family reunion, Milky." He mashed the horn. "He's here!"

  People rushed to the truck as Matt and Ghede stepped out. Malcolm felt more than saw the hands pull him from the seat. He tried to stand, but his legs wouldn't move. Everything slipped and warbled in and out of focus.

  "Get him inside," a man said. It took a moment before Malcolm realized it was Earl Warren, shirtless and in jeans.

  Arms cradled from either side as they carried him on his back toward the door. Drums and voices sounded from within. Malcolm lifted his chin to his chest, trying to see. Between his bare feet and the moving bodies all around him, he saw the doors open wide into a large room lit with candles.

  "Bring him to me," a voice boomed.

  The figures parted, revealing a giant man in a top hat and long tuxedo jacket. A thick cigar smoldered between grinning teeth. Baron Samedi.

  "Set him down," the Baron ordered.

  The carriers lowered Malcolm to a dirt floor. The Baron knelt beside him and leaned close. It was Jim Luison, but there was nothing about Malcolm's old friend in those piercing eyes. He plucked the cigar from his lips and smiled. "Malcolm Romero," he cooed, smoke curling from his mouth. "Long time."

  "Baron," Malcolm mumbled.

  Baron Samedi leaned close and sniffed, his nostrils flaring wide. "You got death on you, Malcolm." He inhaled again. "But your soul is cursed. I can help your body," he sucked the cigar. "But I can't remove the curse. Do you want to live?"

  "Y…yes."

  "It ain't free, Malcolm. You willin' to pay the price?"