Hounacier (Valducan Book 2)

by Seth Skorkowsky

  Resuming his dance, Malcolm started up the bridge. Cars slowed behind them, hesitant to pass the outer lane out of either respect or superstition. Dark drops of dried blood speckled the path Malcolm had taken just hours before, that time to die, this time to kill.

  The Ninth Ward was still as the march wormed its way up the dark streets. A few windows lit as the drummers passed, but most houses didn't stir.

  A police car sat before the smash-through gap in Atabei's fence. Another pulled around the corner ahead and stopped in the street. Their lights erupted in angry blue and red flashes as the parade neared.

  An officer stepped out of his car, hand on his pistol. "Stop right there!"

  The other policemen came out of their cars. One of them held a shotgun. From the corner of his eye, Malcolm noticed Matt's hand inching toward the slit in his shoulder back. It was about to get bloody very fast.

  Malcolm stepped forward, his hand out to his sides. "Yes, officer."

  "Are you Malcolm Romero?" the first officer asked.

  "I am."

  The gun came up. "Get down on the ground! You are under arrest."

  Baron Samedi roared with chilling laughter. "Or what? I know you don't plan to arrest him, Seymour. You're goin' to dump his body and let the gators eat it."

  The officer stepped back then aimed the gun at the Baron. "How do you know my name?"

  The Baron laughed again. "Oh, I know much more than that. I know everything about you, Seymour Hendricks. I know you sold your soul to a witch because so you could gain a little luck. I know you pay for it every month, giving Atabei the money that should be goin' to your little girl's college fund. And you, Randy Brauduc." He stabbed a finger at another officer. "I know your mama's ill and that you'd do anything to help her. So you sold yourself too. All of you did." He sucked a puff of his cigar. "Do you know who I am?"

  "Luison," Officer Brauduc said. "You have that antique shop."

  "Not quite." The Baron pulled back his tuxedo sleeve and stubbed his cigar out on the back of his wrist, raining red embers onto the asphalt. "But you go to his shop tomorrow and ask Jim how he got this mark; he won't know. But you will." He dropped the butt on the street and stood straight. "Now do you know who I am?"

  The officer's gun lowered as if it had suddenly grown very heavy. "Baron Samedi."

  "Indeed." The Baron lifted the brim of his top hat in a little bow.

  The other policemen seemed hesitant, their resolve softening.

  "Now that you know who I am, let me tell you boys something. You made a pact with the darkness, and you know it. You feel that shame, but you're slaves to it. Now this man, Malcolm Romero, see, he's here to save you, bring you back to light. And all you have to do is let us pass, and you'll be free. You can stand tall, look yourselves in the eye again, and know that the darkness is over. This….witch." He pointed to the house. "She's crossed us, pretended she's acted in our names. Now, I'm not a man to cross. So you can either let us by and save you, or you can cross us and suffer her fate with her. And if you join us, I can promise you that long after you're old, and gray, and I dig your grave, and take you to the other side, you'll remember what happened when Malcolm Romero came calling. So what's it goin' to be? Will you let us pass, or will you join in the debt Atabei is about to pay?"

  One by one, the policemen lowered their weapons.

  Baron Samedi turned to Malcolm and swept his hand, gesturing him on.

  Malcolm continued though the drums and rattles no longer played. Some of the loa and procession members went through the broken fence, but most followed Malcolm as he circled around to the front of the house.

  Light came from a few of the second-floor windows, but he saw no movement within. Malcolm marched up the front steps, Matt at his side.

  "Atabei Cross!" Malcolm called, pounding on the heavy wood door. "I've come for Hounacier!" He shouldered the door, but it didn't move. He hit it again and again, driving his weight in. Shoulder aching, he pushed aside the pain, focused on the rage, and hit it again.

  Matt grabbed his arm. "Stop!"

  Malcolm snapped his head toward him, the anger near blinding.

  "You're no good with a broken arm," Matt said. "We'll do it together."

  Malcolm nodded. He moved to the side, allowing Matt enough room beside him. "Okay. Ready on one…two…"

  The door bolt clicked.

  Malcolm stepped back, ready for whatever was about to come through.

  A slender man opened the door, and it wasn't until his apprehensive eyes met Malcolm's that he recognized him as Gary, now cleaned up. "She went out the back door."

  Malcolm hesitated, but Gary seemed to sense the question.

  "It was wrong what she did." A needy hunger twitched at the corner of his lips. He still thought Malcolm was possessed. He wanted to appease the monster, earn its good graces.

  Dogs barked beyond him. She'd unleashed the Rottweilers.

  Pushing past the demon-addict, Malcolm charged into the house and down the long breezeway toward where the backdoor stood open. He raced outside to the sounds of clanking metal.

  Atabei was in the yard below in a machete fight with Ogoun. The obsidian mask in one hand, she swung Hounacier at the loa with a vicious proficiency. Malcolm had witnessed several machete duels in his time, and Atabei's technique, elbow down and bent front leg, showed she was no stranger to them. And while Earl Warren had the soft hands of a businessman, Ogoun had all but invented the art. He danced around, dodging and deflecting her blade, pushing her back. He could easily take her but didn't. He was stalling her.

  Three more of the loa and five of the followers, Duplessis among them, formed a semicircle behind Ogoun, herding her back. Papa Legba watched from the side, petting Sogbo and Bade as if nothing important were going on.

  "Atabei!" Malcolm roared, coming down the steps.

  She turned at her name. Ogoun stepped back, melting into the human wall.

  Atabei's eyes widened. Still panting from her fight, sweat glistened across her narrow, ebon face. She raised the mask toward Malcolm as he neared.

  He grinned as the realization dawned on her that it wasn't working. "I've come for Hounacier."

  "No." She raised the machete toward him. "It is mine."

  "She," he corrected moving closer. Atabei stepped warily to the side, and they began a slow circle.

  His followers gathered behind him, forming a ring around them. None, not even Ogoun, made any move to assist. Hounacier was his to win and theirs to witness it. It didn't matter. Malcolm felt the bond as he watched the blade. She wouldn't hurt him.

  Atabei's nostrils flared with each breath. She was trapped, and she knew it. With a scream, she lunged, hacking the machete. The blade hesitated for a moment, and Malcolm seized the opening.

  He sprung toward her, grabbing her wrist and the back of the blade. Malcolm twisted it down as he drove his side into her.

  Atabei cried out and stumbled back. She fell onto her ass at the loa's feet.

  Malcolm squeezed Hounacier's bone grip, savoring the feel of it. He released a weeping breath, the weight of her absence lifting away. She was his once more. I'll never lose you again. I swear it. He glared down at the fallen priestess, his anger returning.

  Atabei clutched the mask to her chest as if it might offer some protection. She glared hatefully up at him and spat.

  "For Ulises." Malcolm raised Hounacier high, ready to deliver the killing stroke.

  "Malcolm, stop!" Papa Legba boomed, his voice louder than could be imagined by such a scrawny man.

  He scowled. "Why?"

  "Our agreement was to help you reclaim Hounacier, which you have now done."

  "She murdered Ulises."

  Legba dolefully nodded. "Yes. But you are not a murderer. And Atabei has done more than that." His fatherly tone sharpened as he looked down at her. "She has used our name in vain, guiled, and passed herself off as one of our priestesses. So we will judge her for her sin."

  "You," Atabei said
with a hateful glare. "What's your name worth? You were there when Ulises killed my husband. What did you do? What did any of you do? You let him die then you wept! As if your pain could rival mine. I can cure the possessions. I save lives. Lives you would take." She held up the obsidian mask, shaking it before them. "This! This is what I did. No one died. No children lost their parents. No wives became widows. So don't pretend that your name means anything except death and pain!"

  "Those masks only delay the problem," Papa Legba said. "They are only a sleeping volcano, waiting to unleash itself when no one expects it."

  "Not if you put it on an animal. Then Hounacier can kill the monster but not a person."

  "And how many animals did you slay while you had Hounacier, Atabei?" He shook his head. "None. You kept them both for your own glory. The only time you tried to use Hounacier was to kill Malcolm. But then you pretended it was in our name that you made your gris-gris and worked your spells, taking people from our path and into your own." Papa Legba drew a resigned breath and tapped his cane three times. "Give her what she has earned."

  Baron Samedi smiled wickedly. "Time to pay your debt."

  The loa descended upon her, swarming and holding her down. Atabei screamed and thrashed. Tasha—Erzulie took the obsidian mask from her while Adjasou pinned her arm. Papa Ghede pushed his way through until he stood above her head, the silver wolf mask in his hands.

  "No!" Atabei screamed, her eyes white and locked on the descending mask. "No! No! No!"

  Baron Samedi howled in laughter.

  Despite his hatred, Malcolm felt a moment's sympathy as Ghede pressed the mask onto Atabei's face.

  Instantly, her writhing ceased. Redness glowed beneath the mask, casting ruby light down her neck and chest and filling the eye holes with swirling, liquid light. She shuddered, and loa backed away. She spasmed and shook with that unnatural speed. The mask crinkled and warped, cracking and pressing itself even more against her screaming face.

  Fur erupted along her lengthening limbs. Fabric ripped, and claws sprouted from the toes of her slippers a moment before the bestial feet tore through. Bent and broken shards of silver fell from her face, tinkling to the ground as she rolled onto her hands and knees. Her back arched, the vertebrae popping in succession

  Malcolm squeezed Hounacier's grip. He held his ground as all but Matt backed away.

  "You got this?" Matt asked.

  Malcolm nodded. The tingling excitement danced across his shoulders.

  She howled, her face lengthening. Gulmet rose, clothed in the tattered and dusty shreds of Atabei's dress.

  Malcolm charged.

  The werewolf leaped to the side. Malcolm spun as the beast swiped its claws. He ducked and thrust, but Gulmet twisted away from Hounacier's tip.

  Snarling, the werewolf backed away and dropped to all fours. Malcolm held Hounacier before him as they circled one another. Drums began to play.

  It looked around desperately as if searching for an escape. Matt stood at one end, Dämoren ready. Erzulie watched from the other, the ghoul mask clutched to her chest. The beast roared and sprung for Malcolm, claws grasping for his throat.

  Malcolm hacked as he side-stepped, severing the claw at the wrist. Howling, Gulmet slammed the bleeding stump against Malcolm's arm. He stumbled but found his footing before the other claw came down at him. He ducked and moved around the frenzied charge like in a dance then rammed Hounacier into the werewolf's back, up and under her ribs. Gulmet lurched forward, and Malcolm twisted and yanked, pulling the bloodied blade free.

  Falling to her knees, Gulmet twisted around. She raised her arm in a pitiful attempt, but the blade came down on her neck, and she crumpled. She gave two ragged gasps, her single paw scratching the ground, then crimson fire burst from her wounds.

  Panting, Malcolm watched the fire spread across the corpse. Hounacier trembled in his hand and rose of its own volition. Fiery blood flickered along the blade as it moved toward Malcolm's left hand. He smiled and rolled his palm upward to meet it. He winced as she bit into his skin, and the fire surged into him. A familiar half-lidded eye glowed in his palm for only a moment then faded away.

  "Thank you," he whispered.

  The surrounding audience stood silent, watching the werewolf's fire. None seemed saddened.

  "You," Baron Samedi called to Officer Hendricks. "Take her, and feed her to the gators. She deserves no burial." He strode to where Malcolm stood and nodded. "You did well, Doctor. But…" He raised a finger then lowered it at him like a knights' lance. "You still owe a debt for your life."

  Malcolm swallowed. "I remember."

  "You are our bokor, and it's time to honor our queen's decree. Do you understand?"

  He nodded.

  "Say it."

  "I understand."

  "Good. Now, you take care of yourself. And you take care of our people." He grinned that skull-like grin. "I'll be watchin'." Then his eyes rolled back, and he shivered.

  Jim stumbled back, and Malcolm grabbed him by the tuxedo jacket, getting some of his blood on the shoulder. Jim looked up in confusion, then the recognition flashed in his eyes. "Mal?"

  "It's me."

  Jim touched the jacket and looked back. He jumped as his gaze found the burning demon. "What the…?"

  "It's okay, Jim." Malcolm squeezed his shoulder assumingly. "It's dead."

  Papa Ghede sauntered up, a smug smile across his face. "Don't worry there, Jimmy. Milky got it under control."

  Jim lowered his head in sudden reverence. "Papa Ghede."

  "You're late to the party, Jimmy. I was just about to go. My brother says you've been buyin' those cheap cigars again. Told me to tell you he expects to find better ones in the pocket next time he wears your jacket."

  "Of course, Papa."

  Ghede beamed at Malcolm. "You made me very proud, Milky. I know Ulises is too."

  "Thank you," Malcolm said.

  "You won your lady back. Careful not to lose her again."

  "I will be," Malcolm said, but the loa's visible eye had already rolled up.

  Most of the other loa were all leaving as well, their hosts staggering. Yelps of surprise and fear erupted as all eyes found the corpse that was Gulmet and Atabei.

  The homeless man now standing before Malcolm in a pair of broken sunglasses started screaming. He stumbled past Malcolm, trying to escape the monster and the terror of not knowing where he was or how he got there, and ran off.

  "My children," Papa Legba yelled in that commanding tone, banging the tip of cane down like a gavel. "Calm yourselves." He looked around, silent as the priests and priestesses realized who was speaking. "This creature murdered and stalked your streets, and it would have kept on doing it until the end of time, and there's nothing none of you could have done to stop it, save this man." He gestured to Malcolm. "Doctor Romero is our sword-bearer. Hounacier is his bride. He has walked the darkness beyond what any of you will ever know, and now, he's come back to the light to save you from it. Treat him with respect for the sacrifices he makes." He nodded to Malcolm, then his eyes rolled back as the loa left its body.

  Malcolm pushed his way through the closing crowd until he found Tasha near the back, huddled with Maggie.

  Tasha wrapped her arms around him as he came close. "Is it over?"

  He held her against his chest. "It's over." Malcolm squeezed her tight. She smelled like sweat, candle smoke, and dust. "I love you."

  She pulled back, that angry fire smoldering behind her tears. "Don't say that. Don't you say that and then leave me again. I won't do it."

  Malcolm glanced at Maggie, watching them, and then shook his head. "Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere."

  _______________

  To: ; ;

  From:

  Subject: NOLA Field Report and Notification of Reassignment

  _______________

  I apologize for the delay in this field report. I've attached it as well as an assessm
ent of information I gleaned while possessed. Please regard this second item with the highest importance. We have never had opportunity to observe these entities as closely, and the information is quite disturbing. The summary is:

  Werewolves, if not all werebeasts, can completely control a victim without having to physically manifest or without the victim's knowledge of its occurrence. Even Matt Hollis' blood compasses cannot detect this limited manifestation.

  We have incorrectly assumed that demons like werewolves consumed flesh or blood as nourishment. However, the flesh is merely a means to consume their true sustenance, which is energy. In the case of werewolves, that energy is terror.

  Most disturbingly, demons are able to propagate themselves. While this theory has been proposed numerous times before, it has never been proven. After recent events in Italy, we incorrectly assumed that demons were spawned entirely by Tiamat. I can verify that the 1783 field report from Sir Tomas Jansen's expedition to Greece correctly identified a pregnant female werewolf and her mate.

  However, the reason for my delay in sending this report and my findings is of a very personal nature. While it has been a great honor to have served the Order as a Senior Knight and Team Leader, recent events have forced me to accept Hounacier's calling, and I must step down from this position. As payment for my life, I have agreed to the loa that I shall stay in New Orleans to continue Ulises' work. While I would prefer to say that this was a difficult decision, I cannot. My possession was not without repercussions, and a small piece of my soul was lost with it. Hounacier has filled that void. Our bond is now greater than it has ever been, and I feel her calling for me to stay. Please understand that I do not wish to leave the Order, but merely change my responsibilities. I am, and always shall remain, a Valducan knight.

  Obviously, this creates a hole in the leadership structure. It is my opinion that Luiza Hollis is the most capable of filling that position. However, due to her current pregnancy and soon-to-be motherhood, I do not know if she will accept it. If not, the next choice should be to reassign Luc Renault to the Americas and promote Uwe Rachow to lead the Western European teams. While such a change might appear dramatic, with Taras Orlovski's current medical condition, I do not feel that anyone else is capable of filling that role.