Black Heart Loa

by Adrian Phoenix

  His throat had been cut by motherfucking mistake.

  “Jesus Christ.” Dallas flopped back onto his pillows, ignoring the tiny jabs of pain from his abdomen, his hand clutching the plastic pitcher of water. The fingers of his other hand twisted into the sheets as he stared at the ceiling.

  I knew it. I fucking knew she wasn’t telling me something.

  Dallas remembered his last conversation with his mentor, recalled her profound silence after he’d passed along the An eye for an eye is never enough comment from Rosette St. Cyr, and realized that Gabrielle—dammit, Divinity—must’ve known or at least suspected who had been behind all the death and violence.

  She’d never said a word.

  And damned near got all of us—me, Kallie, and Belladonna—killed because she kept her goddamned secrets. Just told me to keep watching Kallie, to make sure she was safe. But how the hell could I do that when I never had the truth—not even about what was inside Kallie?

  “What I don’t get,” Dallas said, “is this—with Kallie’s mama locked up, who the hell is she hiding Kallie from? That’s why she stole that Gabrielle LaRue’s identity, right? So she could hide Kallie.”

  “From what I understand, yes. But it’s an unanswered question at this point.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Dallas repeated, voice rough. “How’s Kallie holding up?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Felicity replied. “Lord Augustine’s report came via Mr. Valin after they left Bayou Cyprés Noir. But from what I understand, Ms. Rivière was tired and planned to sleep.”

  Dallas looked at Felicity in amazement. “After all that? I woulda been as pissed as a dozen rain-soaked cats in that girl’s place. Pissed as hell. I wouldn’t’ve stayed one more minute under that roof.”

  Felicity shrugged. “And perhaps she won’t—after a bit of rest.”

  “Maybe,” Dallas allowed. Lifting the pitcher to his mouth, he sipped more cold water through the straw.

  “I can’t help but wonder how it was done, though.”

  Dallas looked at Felicity. Raised his eyebrows.

  “The soul removal,” she clarified. “How, exactly, would one do it?”

  “Why you wanna know? You got some kinda homework assignment?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Dallas shook his head. “Ain’t information to toss out there like chicken feed.”

  A smile brushed Felicity’s lips—not cherry red, her lips, like in his dream, but a deep and glossy peach. She rose to her feet in one smooth motion and crossed to the bed. Her soap and roses scent laced around him.

  “Of course it isn’t,” she said. “I understand that. Which is why I would keep it secret.”

  Dallas looked into Felicity’s eyes, speckled green and golden-brown, and sudden heat tingled beneath his skin. “Sorry, sugar. You ain’t hoodoo or voodoo, so no can do.” The disappointment shadowing her face made him add, “Why you wanna know, anyway?”

  Curling her fingers around the bedrail, Felicity glanced at the floor as if gathering her thoughts. When she lifted her gaze and looked at Dallas again, her expression was stark.

  “What would you do if someone you cared for very much, someone you’d shared a large and important portion of your life with, was murdered? Their life stolen. But instead of crossing over and leaving forever, this someone found shelter inside a Vessel—temporary shelter that they would soon have to vacate?”

  “I would do my best to find this someone I cared about a permanent home,” Dallas replied, voice low. “But you’re talking about some serious shit here, darlin’. You can’t just yank out someone’s soul and stuff Augustine’s into the body.”

  “But it can be done? A nonnative soul inserted into a live body?”

  “Yeah,” Dallas sighed. “It can. Kallie’s obvious proof of that. But note that it was done without her permission. I can’t imagine that you’re gonna have volunteers lining up for the honor of housing your boss’s soul.”

  “True,” Felicity said. “Unless they happen to be death row inmates whose time has just run out.”

  Light flared behind the curtains. Thunder boomed.

  Dallas stared at her. Even though he was pretty damned sure he’d understood her just fine, he still heard himself asking, “Say what?”

  “I’ve also considered the possibility of using the body of a Vessel who has checked out mentally,” Felicity said. “Of course, in that scenario, a catatonic, nonviolent type of insanity would be best. Lord Augustine could surround what remains of the Vessel’s mind with static and take control of the body.”

  “But … they wouldn’t be capable of giving consent.”

  “Regrettable, I agree,” Felicity replied, without an ounce of regret in her voice. “But a wasted body, otherwise. However, I do prefer the first option.”

  “Look,” Dallas said softly, “as hard as it is to accept, Augustine died. Maybe you need to let him go. Encourage him to complete his journey or crossing or whatever.”

  “Never.” Felicity pinned Dallas in place with a fierce, almost savage look. He could see her pulse pounding in her pale throat.

  Dallas held her gaze. “Not even if he wanted you to let go?”

  She lifted her chin. “He doesn’t. He loves life.”

  “Who the hell doesn’t, darlin’? But we all gotta go sometime. Look, I get it. I understand—”

  Felicity shook her head. “I doubt that. From what I understand, Dallas darling, you’re an expert on leaving. Not sticking around.”

  “And you would know that how?”

  “From the long and obvious trail of rumpled beds, broken hearts, and wrecked marriages you’ve left behind you, Mr. Brûler.”

  Ouch.

  Dallas opened his mouth, mentally thumbing through his repertoire of snarky witticisms and finding them all sadly lacking. He closed his mouth, deciding silence the better option—especially since the damned woman was right.

  He was an expert at leaving.

  Not a fact that made him proud.

  Expression smoothing into its usual calm, Felicity murmured, “Excuse me,” then touched a finger to the purple-skinned Bluetooth hooked around her ear. She stepped back from the bed, then turned around.

  Dallas’s pulse picked up speed as he drank in the sight of her tight skirt lovingly outlining her heart-shaped ass. Like a pencil skirt valentine. Mmm-mmm-mmm. Lucky skirt. He sighed. Too bad she’s crazy in a mad scientist kinda way.

  “No, that won’t do,” Felicity said. “I don’t care if the hamster is piloting the model plane with amazing skill, all live animal spells are to be …” She frowned, listening. “It was supposed to a top hat full of daffodils, not a hamster-piloted plane? I see. Another mistake. My, my, my. Well, until the spell-caster can figure out what went wrong, see if you can shoo the hamster outside onto the carnival grounds. Hotel guests don’t appreciate being buzzed by rodents.”

  Dallas silently agreed with that assessment.

  Finished with her call, Felicity swiveled around to face Dallas looking just a little harried. “Seems we’re having a rash of mysterious magical mishaps this morning, a matter I need to tend to, Mr. Brû—Dallas darling, so I’ll leave you to the capable care of our medical staff. If you need anything—”

  “My cell phone. I need to have a little chat with Gab—Divinity, dammit.”

  A smile brushed Felicity’s lips. “You can use the bedside phone. Interstate calls are allowed. Just dial nine first.”

  “Gotcha. Good luck with your magical mishaps.”

  Felicity started for the door, the heels of her black pumps clicking against the floor tiles, then she stopped and turned back around. She regarded him thoughtfully. “I’m still intrigued by how well you’re doing considering the severe—no, make that critical—nature of your injuries.”

  “Like you said, capable medical staff.”

  “I wonder.” Felicity tapped a rose-lacquered nail against her chin. “Your surgery was magically enhanced. Perhaps whatever’s causing the mishaps i
s responsible for your amazing recovery as well.”

  Dallas shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, darlin’.” But he suspected another source as the smell of dying leaves and magnolias curled through his memory, Erzulie’s words embedded in her earthy scent.

  “You be mine, Dallas Brûler. And mine alone.”

  “A mystery worth investigation,” Felicity said. Touching a finger to her Bluetooth again, she mouthed Goodbye, then click-clickety-clicked from the room, giving Dallas another supreme view of her ass.

  He was reaching for the phone, wondering who he would call first, wondering if his anger with Divinity would win out over his concern for Kallie, when the TV mounted on the wall suddenly blared to life.

  Dallas’s body spasmed in alarm and he winced as pain burned through his abdomen. The TV flickered through its channels in rapid succession as though a ghostly butt had parked itself on the remote—but given that said remote was tucked into its bedrail holster, that seemed unlikely.

  A faint whiff of brimstone drifting in from the hall along with the echo of multiple TVs flipping through the channels suggested to Dallas that someone’s spell had gone awry—another so-called magical mishap.

  “Crap!” someone confirmed from the hall.

  Dallas yanked the remote from its holster, then aimed it at the TV, intending to turn the damned thing off. But before he could, it finally settled on a channel. Dallas’s heart started pounding hard as the words sliding across the bottom of the screen sank in.

  HURRICANE WATCH FOR THE GULF COAST. EVELYN NEARS CATEGORY THREE.

  The remote dropped into Dallas’s lap.

  SEVENTEEN

  AND THE WORLD WILL WEEP AND MOAN

  “May I fetch you anything, ma’am?” asked the anxious-to-please Hecatean Alliance receptionist—Robert—in his neat gray suit and stylish horn-rimmed glasses as he opened the door, then politely stood aside. “We have tea, coffee, juice, and water. It’s a tad early for champagne, but for a member of the board, anything could be arranged.”

  “No, thank you,” Helena Diamond said, sweeping into the room in a swish of navy blue silk and peach blossom perfume.

  The late Lord Basil Augustine’s New Orleans office smelled of black tea, vanilla, and dark tobacco, a warm and inviting aroma, masculine. A masculine space as well, Helena judged, one dominating a sizable portion of the Prestige Hotel’s fifteenth floor.

  “Please make sure that no one uses magic until the source of its malfunction can be discovered and taken care of,” Helena instructed. “We don’t need housekeeping accidentally conjuring any more goats, carpet-eating or otherwise.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Robert murmured. “Lord Augustine’s assistant, Mrs. Fields, has already placed a temporary injunction against magic use.”

  “Good.”

  “Will there be anything else, ma’am?”

  “No, Robert, thank you.” Helena dismissed the receptionist with a slight incline of her head along with a tight smile. And although Robert nodded, acknowledging the dismissal, the bastard lingered.

  “I’d be happy to summon Mrs. Fields,” Robert volunteered cheerfully. “I believe she might still be visiting the medical clinic.” His eyes widened behind his glasses. “But not for herself,” he quickly amended, tongue tripping over his words. “I mean, she’s well, ma’am. She’s merely checking on someone in the clinic.” His voice slipped a few octaves into a confidential tone. “Nasty business, that. A near murder. Blood everywhere. Well, not literally everywhere, of course, but—”

  “I think you’d do well to shut your mouth and leave, if you hope to keep your job,” Helena said, swiveling around and pinning the openmouthed receptionist in place with a glare cold enough to flash-freeze a mammoth. “You’re discussing matters way above your pay grade, young man. And we can leave Lord Augustine’s assistant to her business. I’ll wait for her to return. Now shoo.” She flapped an impatient hand. “Shoo.”

  Robert closed his mouth and swallowed hard. Embarrassment rouging his cheeks, he whirled and fled the office. The door snicked shut behind him.

  Man seems to be a bit of a gossip. Might need to discuss that with his supervisor.

  Helena rested her back against the door and surveyed the room, her gaze absorbing details in the rainy daylight filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows composing the back wall.

  A large mahogany desk. Leather captain’s chair. Two plush visitor’s chairs artfully angled in front, tea service and cart tucked into a corner. A smaller desk against the east wall with lumbar-correct chair behind it—an assistant’s workstation. A vase bursting with bright flowers, sunny daffodils and blushing pink carnations and baby’s breath perfuming the air.

  Lovely. The assistant’s touch, no doubt.

  But what truly interested Helena were the HP computers with their little green telltales winking in the rainy gloom and the curious plastic crate resting on the polished surface of Augustine’s desk.

  Anticipation surged through her. Her breathing quickened. If the report the Hecatean Alliance board of directors had received was correct—and Helena had no reason to doubt that it was, since it had been sent by Lord Augustine himself—a nine-year-old mystery might soon be unraveled …

  “A series of dangerous events has taken place during the carnival, centered around one Kallie Rivière, and which has resulted, regrettably, in my own death.”

  … the whereabouts of Sophie Rivière’s daughter and the loa hidden inside her.

  And, at long last, a chance to finish what I started all those years ago.

  Helena pushed away from the door and crossed to Lord Augustine’s orderly desk, the cream-colored carpet swallowing all sound from her pumps. As she stepped behind the desk, she caught a pungent whiff of frankincense and cloves and juniper wafting up from the depths of the plastic crate on its surface. A smile curled along her lips as she peered inside.

  Since it takes one to know one … looks like hoodoo.

  Cloth, sticks, needles, thread—for making poppets. Oils and powders and mojo bags. Nails, candles, small jars of dirt—graveyard, most likely. Gnarled roots. Saint votives. Various religious statues. Musky incense.

  A couple of weathered manila folders tucked against the crate’s interior goosed Helena’s pulse. Holy bingo. Pulling them free, she sank into the captain’s chair, the leather creaking underneath her and smelling of fragrant Turkish tobacco. She opened the first folder.

  A cold thrill of excitement rushed through Helena as she studied the photo on top—from a newspaper called the Bayou Cyprés Noir Gazette—of two youths, a female and a male who looked enough alike to be related, standing on a wharf in front of a blue-trimmed white boat named Bright Star, arms around each other’s shoulders. A man in sunglasses and a woven-straw cowboy hat stood next to them, just a foot or so away.

  It was the young woman who captured all of Helena’s attention, fascinated her. Dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved red blouse, she squinted in the sunshine, her long, espresso-brown locks trailing across her face in a camera-stilled breeze.

  She looks a bit like Sophie, a beauty, but vulnerable and far less calculating …

  Helena flipped the photo over and confirmed what she already suspected. Scrawled on the back in what looked like black Sharpie: With Dallas Brûler and her cousin Jackson Bonaparte at the launch of his boat …

  Dallas Brûler—the red-haired root doctor in the shades and cowboy hat—was the near murder whose blood had been not quite literally everywhere as Robert had so thoughtlessly stated—but close.

  As Helena could well imagine. A cut throat tends to be messy.

  She also imagined that Lord Augustine’s assistant, Felicity Fields, was doing a bit of PR work on behalf of the Prestige and the Hecatean Alliance by visiting Brûler in the twentieth-floor medical clinic.

  And the handsome boy in the photo with the roguish grin, his CAJUN HOT RODS T-shirt clinging to his tight-muscled chest, had to be Jackson Bonaparte, Sophie’s nephew.

&nb
sp; Sophie’s pathetic attempt to spare the baby in her ever-swelling womb by removing her newborn nephew’s soul—alone!—and seeding his body with the loa while her exhausted sister slept in a potioned slumber had failed for reasons unknown.

  A flaw in the boy, perhaps. An unsuitable host. More likely Sophie simply lacked sufficient power. Foolish woman.

  And even though the young woman with the espresso-brown locks in the photo wasn’t named, Helena had no doubt she was Kallie Rivière. Just the fact that Jackson Bonaparte’s fingers had been captured in the act of shaping a V above the girl’s head suggested a familial relationship, as did their similar looks—eyes, cheekbones, lips.

  Helena touched a finger to the girl’s photo-pixeled face, traced its contours, thinking tenderly of what lay beneath it.

  She’ll finally be free. And the world will weep and moan.

  With a soft sigh, Helena dropped her hand and scanned the newspaper article—a community celebration of the launch of Jackson Bonaparte’s hand-built boat—and learned exactly where to find Kallie Rivière, or, if she no longer lived with her aunt, at least where to start looking for her.

  Bayou Cyprés Noir. Another backwater town I’ve never heard of.

  Returning the folders to the plastic crate, Helena pulled her cell phone from an outside pocket of her black leather purse and quickly snapped shots of the newspaper article and photo. She sent the images to a number she hadn’t dialed in years—but still knew by heart—along with a text message.

  Wait until after the hurricane to fetch her.

  A reply beeped onto her cell’s screen a moment later: Understood.

  Slipping her cell phone back into its pocket, Helena smiled. Bayou Cyprés Noir was about to witness a birth unlike any recorded in the swamp town’s history. Or any other town’s, for that matter. But she doubted a newspaper article and fais do-do would celebrate the event. Screaming and pools of blood seemed much more likely.

  A primal tribute to the sharp teeth of darkness.

  Easing back into the chair and catching another warm and welcoming whiff of tobacco, vanilla, and oiled leather, Helena swiveled it around to face the windows and the riveting view of the Mississippi and the New Orleans skyline they afforded. Lightning flickered across the sky, a dragon’s tongue of white fire—a spine-chilling sight from fifteen floors up.