A Soul's Surrender (The Voodoo Revival Series Book 2)

by Victoria Flynn

  It was tense between us, neither saying a word. Each step felt forced and against my better nature. I didn’t know what awaited me upon arrival in my room and I prayed he didn’t try to search my bag.

  Hiding something that could be monumental in me breaking the contract between us made me feel like a common criminal. Acid tore at my throat with the stress of such a burden. All the while, he never let on that he thought anything was amiss.

  When we came to my door, he stopped and faced me. His business mask snugly in place; he was all formality.

  “I trust I can leave you without needing to worry you’ll run away again?”

  As innocent as it may have seemed, I didn’t miss the underlying threat present. He was letting me off the hook for leaving when Legba had forbidden it, but the next time he wouldn’t be so lenient.

  “I won’t. Pinky promise.” I offered up my small finger to him.

  He eyed it suspiciously, clearly not having the foggiest clue as to what I was doing. A girlish giggle left me. I was helpless to stop it. His face was the picture of confusion and uncertainty, which wasn’t something I’d ever thought to see on him.

  “Right, then. I’ll leave you to it.” He dismissed me and turned to leave abruptly; I didn’t think he liked me laughing at his ignorance of the tradition.

  I stood there, not entering my room yet, and I watched him saunter down the hallway in the same direction he always was coming and going from. There was a part of me that was insanely curious where he spent all his time. The other part couldn’t care less what he did. They were at war with each other and for the time being, indifference won out.

  I slipped into my quarters. Things were as I had expected. The staff had come in and tidied up and made sure the fire was fed so I wouldn’t be cold. The table was set with a grand meal which steamed from under its cover. The scent wafting from under the lid held the promise of rich spices and tender meats. My belly growled loudly, reminding me just how long it’d been since I’d eaten. Other than an energy bar on the way to St. Martinville, I hadn’t eaten and I wasn’t the type of girl to miss a meal.

  I checked the bathroom and my bedroom quickly to make sure I was actually alone. My bed was made and the bathroom was spotless, but at least I was alone. I dropped the bag at my feet and heard the thud of the box against the solid, wooden floor. It called to me to investigate it, though I decided it should wait until I’d had the opportunity to sate my ravenous hunger, which was growing fiercer by the second. I carried it back out and shoved it in the corner, at the foot of the bookcase, fully intending to investigate as soon as I’d tucked the sumptuous meal away.

  Settling into the cushioned seat, I eagerly tore the lid off. Jamaican jerk chicken with coconut rice and mixed vegetables stared back at me. I had to physically restrain myself from actively drooling all over myself. Snagging the fork, I speared the chicken like a barbarian and tore into it, not waiting to cut it up like a civilized human being. Georgio could have fed me gruel and hard tack and I probably would have thought it the food of the gods and sent by Damballah himself.

  The fleeting thought of the serpent god, brought back the conundrum I was faced with. Damballah had tried to kill Rhys without any logical reasoning other than to jumpstart the coming war. There had to be something else going on. I had riddled out that it was likely the reason the Baron had picked me for a wife, tricked me even. He wanted me as an ally, an automatic pick, if you will, for victory. Samedi didn’t know me very well and he hadn’t shown me his best side in the short period we had been acquainted.

  Legba was harder to figure out. He could go either way when the time came. Papa seemed the type to be deeply loyal and not switch sides without deep consideration. There were so many factors to consider.

  I pondered the rest of the many Loa while I chewed the remainder of my dinner. I couldn’t decide who the defectors could be. Nor could I figure out why the creator would risk everything to take out someone as seemingly insignificant as Rhys.

  My thoughts continued to drift through everything that had happened. Mateo’s death finally hit me like a MAC truck. My only real friend there, who had taken the time to talk to me like a normal person, was gone. It was a theme that seemed to recur throughout my life. My parents had been killed by Drake, Rhys was ripped away by circumstances, Angie by fate and murderous thugs, and now Mateo’s death.

  A shower of grief washed over me briefly before everything became dull numbness once again. I had found that I couldn’t feel intense emotions anymore. His words about the darkness that was infecting me came back. I was changing a bit more every day. Losing my compassion had to be a side effect. Was that what had happened to the Baron? He seemed so cold, not truly in touch with another living soul. His charm and vulgarity were his mask to hide it all away. That was the man I was set to marry the next morning.

  Marriage.

  It was something I knew I wasn’t ready for. I would never be able to bring myself to care for the man the way I should. I didn’t have cold feet. That was something willing participants had and it was not something I could afford. Had princesses felt this way when entering into arranged marriages? I imagined so. They did it for the same reason I was doing it; people were depending on me to do what was best for everyone else. My happiness be damned. The future seemed bleaker than ever. Any hopes I had for reuniting with Rhys and living my own happily ever after were evaporating with each tick of the clock. My mood grew darker thinking about it.

  No, this wasn’t a fairy tale and I wasn’t going to live my happily ever after. Or maybe it was a fairy tale. I didn’t really know. I wasn’t living Beauty and the Beast, that’s for damn sure. If anything, I was beginning to think I had more in common with Rapunzel. I was stashed away in a castle, far from those closest to me, by a man who sought to use me for his own selfish desires. All the while I was sitting there waiting for my prince charming to show up, but I doubted he ever would. He’d have figured I wasn’t worth the effort and suffering he’d been through and moved on. This time the adversity was too great for my prince to overcome. So, no. It wasn’t my happily ever after. It was my frozen ever after, where I was always waiting until I was no longer useful to my captor.

  Once I sided with the Baron in the coming conflict, he wouldn’t need me anymore. What then? Maybe I’d conveniently disappear like his last wife.

  I shoved the plate away, my appetite had disappeared along with the fleeting hope I’d come to rely on to get by.

  I had imagined this day since I was young, the night before my wedding. My mom was supposed to be helping me smooth out last minute details. We’d be shacked up in my apartment drinking champagne and attempting to sooth my nerves with jokes. I had even imagined a male stripper with ass-less chaps, a cowboy hat, and rippling abs for days. My last night as a bachelorette and I was totally alone. Yeah, I was feeling sorry for myself and I had every intention of letting myself wallow in it for the rest of the night.

  Getting up from the table, I cast a glance at the bag I’d tossed aside. It would wait a bit or even until morning if I needed. My growing mountain of problems weighed heavily on me, constricting my chest and making thoughts swirl in a chaotic mess. I dragged my weary carcass to my bed and flopped down, not bothering to remove my dirt and grime caked clothes. Any attempt to root out a solution to one of the problems intensified the thudding in the back of my head. I hadn’t had a migraine in years and that one was gearing up to be a rough one. Squeezing my eyes shut, I hoped it would fade soon when the lights had been extinguished.

  At some point, I must’ve drifted off because the next thing I remember was waking up.

  The room was dark, except for the dancing aura of the low fire burning in the hearth. Yet, despite the fire, the room held a chill within it. It settled in my bones and I couldn’t shake it. The stuffy room smelled stale and a bit dusty. My own breathing and the low crackle of the flames were the only noise to disturb the silence.

  I wasn’t sure why I was awake. Had someth
ing woken me up? I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and sat up higher in the bed. I was up for a reason, I just knew it. Tossing the covers off my bare legs, I swung them over the edge of the bed and stood. The wooden floors were like ice beneath my warm feet. I tentatively stepped forward past the end of my bed.

  “Hello?” I asked, breaking the stillness.

  There was something there. I no longer felt alone.

  Trying to swallow, my throat dried up on me, making me sputter and choke on absolutely nothing. My bravery only went so far and seemed to have run out. Whatever was there was teasing me, staying under the radar just enough to not be fully detected and still noticeable in a sixth sense way.

  “Hello? Look, if someone’s in here fucking with me, I am so not in the mood for it. Leave now or run the risk of getting your ass handed to you on a silver platt-” I silenced myself instantly when I heard it. Something had made a noise, almost like speech, but too low to make out definitively. “Did you say something?” I asked, holding my breath as I waited for an answer or something so I knew I wasn’t losing it.

  Straining my hearing, I thought I heard it again.

  “A little louder, please?” I asked.

  “Not too late.” It was faint, hardly even a whisper.

  I couldn’t feel where the voice was coming from. It came from everywhere, surrounding me. Pulling my magic to me, I sent my astral form out to pinpoint the source. At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Then, I began to move around the room.

  In the corner, at the bottom of the tall bookcase, sat my bag. My brows knit together in confusion. It was putting off some seriously weird vibes. It had the pull I remembered, but the spiritual signature wasn’t like any I’d come across. The Bacalou’s had been violet and distinctly evil, like a plague. Humans had ranges of warm colors, but were never something that would put up big, flashing lights on my radar. The green glow peeking out from under the flap on the bag had piqued my interest.

  Shuffling closer, I looked over my shoulder at the rest of the room to make sure I was alone. I kneeled down, hesitant at first to pull the flap back and see what it was. A sudden burst of courage and a deep breath had my hand gripping the smooth leather and tossing it back out of the way.

  The box was nestled soundly on top of a stash of clothes. Before opening the bag, I’d let my imagination run a little wild, thinking I would see some sort of crazy Ghostbusters type stuff. What I saw was not what I had imagined in the least. The ornate carvings on the box were a vibrant emerald and seemed to pulse. The thumps picked up the closer my fingertips came to touching the sumptuous lines. I wasn’t sure if it was my own heartbeat, which felt like it was about to pound its way out of my chest, or that of the container. I brushed over the opulent scrolls, amazed at the warmth of it. There was no specific characteristic that stood out more than the others, but whatever was in it felt…alive. I picked it up and held it in front of me, searching for the latch to open it.

  It had to be there somewhere. I followed the seam of the lid around and tried to figure out which side was the front. The smooth sides and lack of a front lock made the task considerably more difficult. Trying to just lift the lid was a fruitless endeavor and the box was well and truly locked up tight. There had to be some sort of trick to it. I felt along the carvings, checking for anything that could be slightly out of place.

  The rear corner of the bottom had a spot where all the carved lines crossed. It was the only such occurrence on the entire contraption. My thumb pressed down on its center, but it didn’t budge. Almost mimicking the intricacies of an Irish knot, I started pressing down on the segments surrounding the intersection. The first four refused to give any, however, when I came to the fifth and final section it gave a small click moving just enough to make me inhale quickly.

  Interesting!

  Turning it back over, I examined the front again. A tiny spindle-looking piece had unlatched and protruded from the front. Considering the floral design, it could have been a thorn. The whole thing was beginning to remind me of Sleeping Beauty and I knew what had happened to her. I couldn’t see any other use for it than to prick a finger on it. So many rituals and contraptions in the practice of voodoo were dependent on blood to function properly. It was considered a sacrifice to give up something life-giving and precious such as the crimson liquid pulsing within me.

  Adrenaline coursed through me, excited to finally discover what had called to me since finding it. What was worth cursing the area of its containment? It had to be something vital. I didn’t know anyone powerful enough to set such a trap, except perhaps a Loa. All good sense and logic left me as I pushed my thumb down on the tip of the spindle head. With enough pressure, I broke the skin. It was barely enough to draw blood. When I tried to pull my thumb pad off of the spike, I found I couldn’t.

  Some unseen force pulled my thumb down, further impaling it on the sharp point. I hissed and grit my teeth together as the tip buried itself completely within my tender flesh. Blood gathered around the small wound, trickling down over the grains of wood. As soon as the progress ceased, everything around me went black. Even the fire in the hearth was snuffed out. I let out a shaky breath.

  The room was silent, but not the good kind. Not the calm kind. It was the kind that would usually be replaced with haunting music in a horror movie. A cool hand with long fingers brushed along my cheek. A terrified, blood curdling scream tore from my lips as I scrambled from the spot on the floor where I had been sitting. My eyes were wide, searching for whatever had touched me.

  “Who’s there? Who are you?” I demanded, knowing it was whoever had been imprisoned within the box.

  Still, I hadn’t the foggiest idea who that could be. My muscles were tensed, ready to run the hell out of there if I needed to. I couldn’t detect any movement within the room, putting me even more on edge.

  Those fingers grabbed ahold of my face firmly and pried my lips apart. My eyes were squeezed tightly shut. Shrieks ripped up my throat as something ice cold had forced its way inside me through my parted lips. It cut off any noise I could make, choking me. I didn’t know what to make of any of it and I was sure I was about to meet my maker. If that was the case, I wasn’t going out without trying to catch a glimpse of my murderer. I popped an eye open, then the other, when I noticed that it was no longer dark.

  I was still in my bedroom, but all I could focus on were the bright, green eyes staring back at me from about three inches in front of my own. I coughed and dragged precious air into my burning lungs as the pressure and tightness released. My gaze never left those lush, exotic orbs.

  Their owner backed up and gave me space to collect myself and reassess the situation. A woman with rich mocha skin was crouched low. Her chocolate brown hair was thick and kinked with tight curls, which made her mane much larger than it would be otherwise. There wasn’t a stitch of clothing covering her nakedness. Her bright eyes stood out on her beautiful face, easily being her most admired feature. Who was this woman? She didn’t appear to be any older than I was.

  The woman was assessing and sizing me up. There was a confidence about her, not just in her body which was incredible, but in her place in the world. It was the kind a person is born with and completely unlike myself. I had never been particularly confident in any aspect of my life, except science, and even that had been shot all to shit. She was the type of woman who’d have men falling at her feet and begging for the opportunity to give her the world.

  It was her. The sheer power that had drawn me to her container had been her. It emanated from her.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  Her eyes grew wide as I addressed her before she unfolded herself from her crouched position on the floor. The temptress drew herself to her full height, putting her curves on display for all to see.

  “Not too late.” Her full lips whispered the words to me. Everything about her was sensual and erotic, I found myself wrapped up in her thrall and wanting to do anything to please the woman.

 
The temptress, glanced over her shoulder towards something, and just as suddenly as she’d drawn herself up, she pulled herself back down into the scared, defensive cower. Eyeing the area behind her, I could see nothing, but I could feel something ominous. Something was coming; we were no longer the only ones in the room.

  Without any forewarning, I was cast into blackness again. Unlike the time before, the lights never came back on. I drifted back off to a restless slumber.

  My eyes burned like they were too dry and filled with grit from sleep. I was hesitant to crack them open. The dark feeling from my dream was gone and I knew I was safe for the moment. The pounding in my head was gone and I did what I could to find some comfort in the little things like that. No staff had come to wake me yet; it must have still been early or late, depending. It was so hard to tell how much time had passed with the lack of day to night phases.

  I sat up, staying tucked under the covers and warm while I re-oriented myself and contemplated the strange dream I’d had. I couldn’t get those vivid, green eyes out of my mind. They’d been seared into my memory as had everything else about the nude goddess.

  With everyone busy and it still being early enough, I decided to take a gander in the box. Gripping the comforter to throw it aside, I winced, noticing the sharp ache in my thumb.

  Strange. That’s the same thumb, I thought, dropping the quilt back down to examine my digit more carefully. There was a crusty wound in the center of the pad. Blood had dried around the edges and bruising surrounding that. It was a bit more than tender to touch, though I poked and prodded the injury trying to riddle out its cause.

  The dream, which was what I assumed it was, still lingered in my thoughts. When Rhys had whisked me away to Mama’s swamp hideout, I’d dreamed then that I was Marie Laveau. It was the first time I’d ever given the woman much mind. While I had been drugged, Mama had told me it meant something. It meant that she was in fact my great, great grandmother. Another dream produced a rose that had been sent to another dimensional plane. My dreams had the tendency to be much more than mere dreams. The realization that the woman from my dreams was more dawned, and I shot out of bed.