Conceiving (Subdue Book 3)

by Thomas S. Flowers

  Grandmamma was seated near the back of the temple hut, overlooking the ceremony. Every Blanche and even a few Ronna did not recognize came to take part in the ritual, the Resurrection of John Turner. John’s body was carefully lowered into the vat of rum. His wounds and the black wired stitching seemed magnified in the hazy glass. The sin of hate has certainly created something monstrous here tonight, she thought, a moment’s hesitation dismissed quickly by the moans of John’s parents still ringing between her ears. The vat itself was rolled to the altar, a table decorated with candles and a large ornate cross. In front of the cross, Bo had placed a large silver bowl. In the bowl, instead of water, as was their custom, he’d filled the basin with chicken blood. The plucked feathers were tossed about the tabernacle like straw. Severed claw-feet dangled from the cross. The flames intensified and diminished along with the rhythm of the drums that began to play.

  The dancing began.

  Shouts and beats.

  Feet pounding the floor.

  Chanting rung as the sun dipped into night.

  The drums kept the tempo.

  Bo stepped forward from the circle, dressed in ceremonial feathers tied together and bare chested. Dark skin painted with odd shapes in white chalk. Body spasming, he fell into a strange kind of frantic drunken dance. Eyes rolled back.

  The people shouted, “Lwa, Lwa, Lwa!”

  The rum in the vat started to bubble.

  Bo fell to the ground, still spasming. Rolling in the dirt on his belly. The others pounded the floor around him. Kicking the dust and dirt. Someone, Lucretia perhaps, Ronna could not be for certain, her mind became entranced by the ceremony, drank rum from an unmarked bottle and spat, spraying over the fallen Blanche. Caleb walked through the circle, leading a goat. His face marked with a skull, the white powder a stark contrast against his midnight skin. In his hand he held an elongated blade with strange markings and green emerald jewels. The goat was held above Bo, still was spasming on the floor, eyes darting manically, teeth clenched, muttering a dialect only heard during these types of happenings.

  Caleb held the knife in the air and then cut the bleating goat’s throat, allowing the fraying creatures crimson life to flow like a gushing river.

  The Blanche family howled and screamed and the drums beat louder and louder. The sound of rattlesnakes rattled in the crowd of dancing, spasming congregates. The temple hut shook. The ground rumbled. The pines outside swayed back and forth in a sudden tempest wind. A hot breeze came in over the assembly. Vapors rose from the ground.

  Ronna stepped forward.

  The music rose.

  The feet pounded.

  She came closer, her mind focused entirely on John floating in the vat. She danced, swaying with the rhythmic beats and clangs and rattles. Her headdress fluttered as if alive. Ronna cared nothing for how exposed she was. Her breasts swung and lifted as she jumped and kicked the floor. Ignoring Bo drenched in blood speaking arcane gibberish, she came to the vat and reached out into John’s warming mind with her sight.

  “Gen lavi,” she whispered.

  “Gen lavi…”

  “GEN VAVI!”

  The music seemed to come to some cataclysmic crescendo. Breathless, the Blanche family continued the chants and the dancing and the howls and screams and clucks. And just as fast as the chaotic near deafening harmonious chorus rose, it stopped. Silence came in like a whip, crackling with cerebral electricity, ringing over the walls of the temple hut and the vat filled with rum and the corpse of the boy brutally murdered by those hard hearted fools.

  In breathless hush, Ronna waited. Her gaze fell on the boy’s hand.

  Inside the vat, John Turner began to move.

  Chapter 11

  Whiskey Lullaby

  Bobby

  Rudy’s was one of the nicer taverns this side of Hitchcock. Most everything else was either a Valero gas station or one of them gambling houses, places with names like Aces or Champions or EZ Game Room or Jungle Den, where hungry people go with malnourished hope. Bobby had his own opinion of such places. Ramshackle hovels catering to one single thing, addiction. The high of winning; but more importantly, the rush of losing. It doesn’t make much sense, at first, but it’s true. People get off on losing. Think about it. If not, why do so many people gamble? There are far more losers than there are winners. Sure enough, the proof is in the pudding, as the saying goes. People get off on the rush of losing. Get off on that adrenaline of wanton projection and self-loathing. You’re never gonna amount to nothing, the subconscious says in the mirror. The man’s always trying to keep you down, says the other angel on your shoulder. And maybe the bastard’s right, but at least at the gambling slots, there’s a sense of destination. Truth be told, gambling houses and bars are quite similar. Distant cousins, or kissing cousins you might say, each offering some kind of escape from whatever turmoil the day had to offer. In moderation, those hideous hobbies, as with everything else, are not dangerous. But when the slots ring and buzz and the whiskey flows like water and the jukebox plays those lonesome songs that seem to tell the tale of your life, one right after the other, who can claim such disciplined restraint? Who can go into a bar for one glass one shot one beer? Who can give the slot one tug and walk away? The only people who can are the ones who have no business being there in the first place.

  Bobby Weeks had been at Rudy’s since just before lunch. He ate some nuts with a side of whiskey, the Jack Daniels variety. Though, if we’re going to be honest, the only meal he had was the rye distilled poison at the end of the slowly disappearing bottle. One sad twangy song played after the other, starting with Jeanne Pruett’s “Satin Sheets” and Freddie Hart’s “Easy Loving.” 1970s classics he thought long dead, just like the uncle who used to take him fishing when he was a boy, except instead of the cracker-box radio on the side of the river bank, the tunes played through the red and gold chrome speakers of Rudy’s jukebox. Those old tunes were the only country he could stand, for nostalgic purposes, other than Johnny Cash, of course. Nothing spoke to his soul more sweetly and honestly than from the Man in Black.

  Bobby tapped his boot on the bar stool. Rudy must have picked out the songs before opening, he thought, killing his glass in one painful gulp. His stomach rumbled, warm and mildly upset with lack of substantial solid food.

  For a long while, Bobby was Rudy’s only customer. Around noon, a few others walked in, sitting at the round wooden tables thrown about the place, ordering food from whatever else Rudy serviced other than whiskey. He lost count how many came and went, despite his inclination to keep a watchful eye on the bar’s only entrance and exit. Around his sixth glass, he cut off the rocks and water and nuts and kept to the whisky alone. He stopped looking up into the mirror-backed wall, refusing the reflection of someone he’d rather not see at the moment.

  “Get you another?” Rudy was standing in front of Bobby, behind the bar. A dish towel was draped over his shoulder. He was wearing dark denim jeans and a black button-up with a bright red tie. Rudy’s was stenciled on the right breast pocket. His mustache looked especially glossy today, long handlebar curls, twisted up in one of those dapper fashions popular among certain crowds. Hair, slick and black as his mustache, was trimmed and parted meticulously to the right.

  Bobby tapped the bar with his knuckle, uncaring for his own reminiscently homeless appearance. He didn’t look up long. His gaze fell back to the bar top, glancing timidly as Rudy refilled his glass with golden brown escape.

  “How many more until you take my keys?” Bobby took his glass, sipping, wondering without much care if he’d be able to ride the Fatboy back to Luna’s or not.

  “If you can walk outta here, it ain’t none of my business.” Rudy dried his hands on the towel.

  “Good.”

  Rudy smirked and wandered farther down the bar. A trio of twenty-somethings had strolled in wearing short skirts and tight tank tops, smiling and chit-chatting with each other. College girls by the look of them, or so Bobby assumed. It must
have been getting late. The tavern was starting to fill up with the regular after work crowd. Surprisingly, or perhaps not so surprising, a lot of the clientele here at Rudy’s looked like teachers, single or divorced, probably coming in to chase away those pint sized adolescent demons whose parents had for whatever generational reason given up on disciplining at home. Some fool put their quarter in the box. “Whiskey Lullaby” started playing through the tavern speakers.

  “Oh lord,” Bobby moaned.

  “Not a fan?”

  Bobby glanced to his right. Some kid no older than eighteen had just sat beside him at the bar. He looked spoiled enough. Neatly combed blond hair. Polo. Khaki pants. Something like Hushpuppies on his feet. Reminding him a little of his dead friend, Jake. Rich parents, no doubt. Come to Hitchcock for what? Drugs? Cheap company? Nothing he couldn’t find himself in a better part of town. The kid looked moon pale in the mirror, and there was something else, something oddly familiar about him. His smell.

  “Not really.” Bobby looked back at his glass, content not to care.

  “Not a country music fan or not a Brad Paisley fan?” asked the boy.

  “Both.”

  “Really? That’s interesting.”

  “How so?”

  “This is Texas, right?”

  “And?”

  “Doesn’t everyone from Texas listen to country music?”

  Bobby looked back at the kid, unsure if he was serious.

  “Not from around here?” Bobby asked, his attention falling back to his whiskey.

  “No. Can’t say that I am. Traveling through, thought I’d make a stop in Galveston. See the sights, you know, the Pleasure Pier, tourist stuff.” The boy smiled. On his forearm, Bobby spotted a tattoo or marking of sorts, tribal looking, There was a curve at the base, like a bowl. Above the bowl was a circular drawing. Inside the circle there was weird lettering, nothing he could remember ever seeing before, but feeling oddly enough that he had.

  “Can I get you something?” Rudy was back, standing in front of the stranger with the tattoo. “If it’s booze, I’ll need to see some ID.”

  “Not necessary. Just water, please.”

  “Okay.”

  “Thank you.”

  Rudy shrugged, probably wondering why someone his age dressing the way he was would walk into a bar in the evening and only want water. To be fair, Bobby himself felt it was a curious thing. Maybe the kid thought he could get away without an ID in such an establishment, not that Rudy would ever allow something like that to go unnoticed. Rudy was a good enough man. Left you to your own business without a bunch of chit-chat, but he was certainly a stickler when it came to ensuring everyone who drank at his bar met legal requirements.

  He was a good man. Worked hard for what he had. And best of all, didn’t ask a lot of questions, other than what you’re having.

  Filling a glass from the tap, Rudy placed it in front of the kid.

  “Thank you, sir.” The boy smiled and took his glass of water.

  Rudy nodded, smirking at bit, and wandered back to the trio of skirts at the other end of the bar. The girls snickered playfully, settling in at the bar for the night.

  “Nice ink.” Bobby tipped his glass, gesturing at the kid’s forearm.

  The boy looked puzzled, frightened almost. His wide-eyed look vanished, replaced with what Bobby referred to as a salesman’s smile. “Oh this old thing,” he said, rubbing his arm.

  “What is it, tribal?”

  “It’s huh…yes, tribal.”

  “Nice.”

  “Do you have any tattoos?”

  “A few.”

  The boy lingered on Bobby, waiting no doubt for him to finish.

  “Just a…memorial piece, for some buddies of mine. KIA in Kurdistan.”

  The kid gave a look of what felt like mock sincerity. Bobby had seen the same look a dozen times from all sorts of people. From would-be employers to soup kitchen helpers to the guy who gives you a pillow at the shelter…or even long ago childhood friends you stumbled into under an overpass.

  “I’m sorry to hear. About your friends. Did you serve as well?” the boy asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Kurdistan? Where is that?”

  “Northern Iraq.”

  “Oh. Well, thank you for your service, sir.”

  “Sure thing.” Bobby didn’t look at him. He looked at his almost empty glass, heart feeling ten times heaver looking into the bygone glass escape.

  “I’m Justin. Justin Gotaas.” The boy held out his hand.

  Reluctantly, Bobby took it. “Bobby Weeks.”

  Bobby pulled his hand back, but Justin held firm. His eyes gleamed somewhat strangely, as if he’d heard some insider joke, something clever only he knew the punchline to. And that smell, that oddly family scent of…what is that? he wondered. It’s like grain, only finer. Almost earthy, the way rich soil smells baked in the summer sun.

  “Going to need that hand back, kid.” Bobby gestured.

  “Yes. Sorry.” Justin let go, but his gleam did not diminish.

  Silence fell between them for a while. Bobby sipped on his whiskey. Finished it and ordered another. Justin drank his water. Rudy’s tavern started to wind down just after dinner. Being a weekday, the crowd of nine-to-fivers finished their drinks and paid their tabs, some went home with strangers, most went home unaccompanied. As is the cycle of such establishments. You go to be in company but ultimately leave alone. By eight, the bar had pretty much emptied, except for Bobby and Justin, the trio of girls at the bar, and another young couple sitting at a table near the jukebox.

  Again, Bobby killed his glass. Knocked on the bar top with his knuckle, unsure if English communication was still possible. This would be his last one. Last one. Sure. Rudy appeared and without argument, filled his glass.

  Bobby reached back and pressed on his back pocket, to ensure the envelop of money was still there from when Bryant had fired him earlier that day, from when he smashed ole what’s his name’s face into a bloody, messy pulp. Fucking asshole, he thought, taking a long gulp of burning pleasure.

  Justin was looking at him again.

  “What?” Bobby meant all the roughness in his voice. The dude was seriously starting to give him a vibe. “Look, man. Rudy’s isn’t one of them bars. If you’re looking for action, you’d have better luck at JR’s up in Houston.”

  Justin didn’t seem to hear him. “Do you believe in fate, Bobby?”

  “What?”

  “Fate. That mystical thing new agers believe control everything, or at least that’s what they say in their little drum circles when they’re smoking weed. Most of it is tomfoolery. But maybe not all of it. I think we can control our direction, or destiny, if you will, but fate, providence, is pretty much a sealed deal. No changing where we end up only how we get there. No matter how hard we try, our hand has been dealt.”

  Bobby smirked, finishing his last glass. He knocked the cup hard on the bar table, reached into his envelope and pulled out a couple twenties. Tossing the bills on the table, he stood. Somewhat wobbly, he looked at Justin.

  “I don’t really care about that bullshit, kid.” He turned to leave.

  “Fate doesn’t care if you believe, Mr. Weeks.”

  Bobby waved his hand, dismissively, heading for the door, focusing on his balance so Rudy wouldn’t be forced to take his keys. Mr. Weeks…? I swear, that kid smells like—

  “Mr. Weeks, I’m talking to you, sir.” Justin was yelling. Bobby turned, almost fell. Gaining his footing, he glanced back at the boy.

  Justin was standing. Glaring. He took a step toward him, away from the bar.

  “I’ve been looking my whole life to find a place to call home. Changing my destiny, if you will, foolishly thinking I’d make any difference to where I’d end up. Fate has smiled upon me, Mr. Weeks. In my search for a home, fate brought me to a family. A place for me to make my own. Friends to make my own. People who in turn made me theirs. Providence, Mr. Weeks, it is bound by what we
are prepared to do to survive and the lengths in which we are willing to go in order to reach our destination.” Justin spoke, stepping slowly toward Bobby. His fists were clenched. Teeth grinding between words. Eyes wild.

  “Listen. You two. I don’t want any trouble in here.” Rudy was standing near the trio of girls, his face was pale and his body looked tense. Every muscle readied. Bobby wondered, for a moment, if Rudy kept a double gauge behind the bar, like in the movies.

  “Trouble? Trouble walked in here long before I did.” Justin kept his gaze on Bobby. He reached behind his back and pulled out a knife, a dagger of sorts, from some hiding place in his slacks. The blade was curved, like a snake, and the handle looked to have a pentagram shaped in glowing emeralds. Though, to be honest, it was hard for Bobby to get a good look. His attention was on the silver glinted blade.

  The trio at the bar made loud whimpering sounds.

  Bobby felt the door behind him with his hand.

  Justin stepped closer.

  “Do you know what this is made of? Silver.”

  “Silver?” Bobby mouthed, eyeing the dagger.

  “That’s right. I know what you are. This is the one thing sure enough to end your miserable life, Mr. Weeks. Silver.”

  “You know what?”

  “You are an unnatural, miserable creature. Werewolf. You tried once, didn’t you, Mr. Weeks. Deep down the Their temple. You had a gun. Shot yourself, isn’t that right. It didn’t take though, did it? You couldn’t kill yourself.”

  Bobby’s hands moved away from the door, trembling, clenched fists.

  “You’re completely loony tunes, the both of you. I’m calling the cops.” Rudy was still behind the bar, standing near the trio. He reached for the phone. The young couple near the jukebox stood. Bobby had forgotten they were even there. One, the female, no more than eighteen, had a gun, a revolver, a bulldog revolver. She fired. The tavern exploded in thunder. Rudy fell back against the mirror lined wall, shattering the glass and bottles. He clutched his stomach, looking at the crimson gushing wound in disbelief. His gaze went to Bobby. And then he fell to the floor.