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Karma Page 10

by Nadine Nightingale


  As the sun gently dips into the ocean, I dust the glittering sand off my jeans and face him. “We should head back.”

  Drinking in the beautiful sunset, he sips his latte. “We’ll stay the night. Head back tomorrow.”

  “What?” My voice trembles. “Why?”

  Not taking his eyes off the water, he says, “It’s late and—”

  “No.” I hold a hand up to stop him. “You don’t understand, Alex. We need to get back and find these kids and Jesse.”

  The second I mention Jesse’s name, his aura darkens and his breath quickens. “Do you know where they’re being held?” he asks, trying to keep his voice even.

  What kind of question is that? Would I still be sitting here if I did? “No, but—”

  “Do you have a name or a description of the guys who have ’em?”

  Thinking of the clown mask gives me the chills. “No, I don’t. But—”

  “Then there’s nothing we can do today,” he says matter-of-factly.

  My jaw drops. How the hell can he be so calm? Right, I almost forgot. Alex didn’t see what they did to Isobelle. What they’re still doing to the other kids. Ignorance really is bliss.

  Alex looks up. “Listen,” he says, putting a hand on my thigh. “I want to find them too. God knows I do, but we have to be smart about this. I have a friend here who specializes in Santeria and Voodoo. He might be able to help us.”

  A friend, huh? In other words: another hunter.

  Crossing my arms, I pout. “You’re delusional if you think I’m going anywhere near another hunter.”

  He cocks a brow and laughs. “Are you serious?” he asks, and when I don’t answer, he laughs even harder. “Oh God, you are. You can’t sincerely believe I want to be seen with a witch. That’s crazy, Manda.”

  Here we go. There’s the Alex I’ve grown to hate. My pulse races. “Of course, we wouldn’t want to hurt your reputation,” I snarl through gritted teeth. “I’m curious, though. Are your hunter friends okay with the fact you were screwin’ a witch?”

  He cocks a brow. “I wasn’t screwing a witch,” he clarifies. “I screwed a girl who lied to me. There’s a difference.”

  Wow. How the hell did we go from I-cheer-you-up-with-cupcakes to you-were-the- biggest-mistake-of-my-life in the blink of an eye?

  I’m about to go ballistic on him when he makes a calming gesture. “All right, calm down, lil’ avenger. I didn’t mean to hurt you, but working with a witch is against everything a hunter believes. Jesus, I’d never hear the end of it if anyone knew.”

  Alex’s apologies suck ass. “You’re a douchebag, Alex, a first-class douchebag.”

  Knocking the sand off his trousers, he jumps up. “Yeah, you’re right. But I’m a douchebag who bought you lemon cupcakes.”

  “No,” I say as I get up. “You’re a douchebag who thinks buying lemon cupcakes justifies being a douchebag.”

  Alex pulls a pair of sunglasses out of his jacket. “Chicken and egg, Manda.”

  Stomping away, I yell, “Egg and chicken, Alex.”

  ****

  Jerk-face booked us into the Hacienda Hotel. I totally dig the pool just around the corner, but I still think we should have gone back to Bakersfield. I know we don’t have much to go on, but sitting in LA watching reruns of Criminal Minds while Alex is out and about with one of his hunter pals doesn’t help either.

  Growing increasingly twitchy, I dial Bonnie’s number and put her on speaker. She answers on the third ring. “Ah, look who’s calling. If that isn’t Miss I-ditched-my-best-friend-for-a-hunter,” she barks.

  “Hello to you, too, Miss Grumpy.”

  “Oh, please.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “Cut the crap, Amanda. You are the worst friend ever, leaving me all alone with that Catholic abomination who calls me a slut because I dated two guys in the last two weeks. I mean, how can I ever forgive you? Plus, I had to sleep with our prof to make sure you’ll still have a place at NYU when you finally get your ass over here. All right, maybe I didn’t sleep with him, but I totally flirted with him.” If fast-talking were an Olympic discipline, Bonnie would win gold.

  “Are you done bitching?” I ask after she’s been quiet for longer than a second.

  “For now,” she says, snorting.

  I heave a sigh of relief. “Good. May I speak now?” I take her groaning as a yes and continue. “What’s goin’ on with you, B? Since when do you care if someone calls you a slut?”

  “I don’t know,” she moans. “That chick is killing me. I mean, just because her chastity belt interrupts the blood supply to her brain doesn’t mean I have to take that shit from her.”

  I laugh. “Damn right, baby girl. You don’t have to take shit from anyone, and I promise you, I’ll kick that chick’s Pope-fearing ass as soon as I get there.”

  I don’t need to see her face to know she’s smiling from ear to ear. “Promise?” she asks.

  I cross my heart. “Scout’s honor.” No one messes with my friends.

  “You’re awesome.”

  “I know,” I say, shrugging it off. “Feeling better now?”

  “Tons.” Then her voice grows more serious. “How’s the Alex situation?”

  Sound casual. “We get along.” I sound more miserable than casual, but what can I do?

  “Are you guys… I mean are you…you know…”

  “Having sex?” I finish for her. “No, B. I don’t make the same mistakes twice.”

  “Good,” she says a little too fast. “I mean…you know…”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean,” I assure her. Not in the mood to talk about jerk-face, I change the topic to something far more important. “Hey, did you talk to your mom yet?”

  I hear the impact of her hand as she smites her forehead. “Hell, I almost forgot.”

  “Forgot what?” I ask, curious.

  “Mom said that—” A faint knock on the door interrupts her.

  “Hold on, B. Room service just knocked.” I fish in my bag for change and head to the door.

  “Your order,” the waiter announces, holding a tray with soda, salad, and fries under my nose.

  I grab my dinner and smile. “Keep the change,” I say, handing him the money.

  Slamming the door shut, I return to the bed and nibble on the fries. “Sorry, B. You were sayin’?”

  “I can’t believe you get to order room service while I’m stuck with the nun.”

  I shove a forkful of the salad in my mouth. “No. I mean, what were you goin’ to say about your mom?”

  “Right,” she grumbles. “I asked my mom if she knew a bocor in Bakersfield, but according to her, the Bakersfield voodoo scene is dead.”

  The knot in my belly tightens. “Awesome,” I mutter under my breath. How the hell are we supposed to find the bastard when even the best-connected mambo I know hasn’t heard of him?

  “There used to be two big covens, though,” Bonnie continues. “But after that shit went down in the 80s, most of them left town.”

  I take a sip of my soda and wipe my lips with a napkin. “What shit?”

  She clears her throat and switches to her TV anchor voice. “Apparently, a couple of kids claimed they were sexually abused during black masses. The town went crazy. I mean, literally. It turned into full-blown hysteria. The cops made some arrests, but they were all released after officials stated the kids had vivid imaginations, and none of it ever happened.” She takes a breath. “However, the two covens decided it was better to move on. Couldn’t risk a 20th century witch trial, I guess.”

  I almost drop my fork. “Are you serious?”

  “Wouldn’t lie about it,” she assures me. “Besides, it’s all over the internet. Just Google Kern County child abuse cases.”

  This is déjà vu all over. Child abuse, mass hysteria, and black magic. There’s no way this isn’t connected to the present situation. The question is how?

  “Amanda, you still there?”

  “Yeah.” Reaching for the iPad, I abandon my f
ood. “B, I gotta go, but I need one more favor.”

  “Sure. Anything.”

  Opening a browser, I brace myself for her reaction. “Find me an antidote for the zombie drug?”

  Silence.

  More Silence.

  Laughter.

  “Jeez, I think my hearing is off,” Bonnie says, still laughing. “I could have sworn you just asked me to find an antidote for the zombie drug.”

  “I did,” I mutter as I type Kern+County+Child Abuse+Cases into Google.

  “Are you fucking shitting me?” she yells. “Please tell me you won’t mess with a bocor and his fucking zombie?”

  I bite my lower lip. “Of course not.”

  “Then why do you need a cure?”

  “Because I’m going against a bocor who turned Alex’s brother into a zombie, and kidnaps and rapes little girls,” I say.

  “Oh my God!” she shouts. “Did the hydrogen peroxide percolate through your brain? There’s no antidote. No cure. And even if there was, it would only be known to those who practice with both hands.”

  “Every poison has an antidote,” I say, browsing the 44,100 search results.

  “This is Alex’s doing, isn’t it? I’m so going to kill him.”

  “This isn’t about him, B.” Okay, maybe it is. But I’m not in the mood to be preached at by her. “Just call Melinda and tell her to check Gram’s grimoire. There must be something that can help us.” I pause and clear my throat. “But don’t tell her I’m the one asking, okay?”

  “For the love of God, Amanda. Don’t you think it’s time to grow up and face your sister?”

  I’m even less in the mood to hear her thoughts on me and my sister. “Just do as I said,” I order and cut the line.

  Gaze glued to the screen of the iPad, I skim through a link that reads Kern County—Witch Hunt or Satanic Child Abuse? Thirty defendants convicted of child sex abuse and related charges from 1984 through 1986. Convictions were later overturned. Eleven children told police they had been forced to kill younger children and witnessed such killings. Children accused their parents of sexual abuse and witchcraft. More victims had come forward. Police and District Attorney kept them in protective custody. Parents denied allegations, claiming State of California is on a witch hunt. Satanic slayings and human sacrifices were investigated by police. Police dug up land to search for sacrificed victims. Nephew of accused rapist couple accused uncle and aunt of slaying animals in Black Masses. Victims later recanted their testimony.

  The shit reads like a bad horror screenplay. I’m about to hit YouTube to watch a documentary about the gruesome stuff when my phone vibrates. A text from Alex.

  “Where r u?”

  I reply, “My room. Where else would I be?”

  He types, “Meet me at the bar in 10. Don’t be late!”

  I throw the phone in my bag, shut the iPad, and eye my barely touched dinner. Guess eating is overrated.

  Chapter 13

  Meet me in ten, he said. Don’t be late, he wrote. Well, guess what? I’m on my third soda, but Alex is nowhere in sight. I abhor tardiness, but since sharing Isobelle’s story isn’t exactly on my bucket list, I consider not strangling him. Though, I might change my mind if he doesn’t show up soon.

  Twiddling with my straw, I watch a foreign couple through the large mirror behind the bar. Judging from the way they look at each other, I give them ten minutes before they screw each other in a restroom. Man, I hate lovebirds.

  The blonde, mega-boobs waitress approaches me with a smile that’s faker than Coco Austin’s butt. “Tough day?” she asks, pointing to the three empty soda cans in front of me.

  California girls, don’t you just love ’em? Who doesn’t love their depressing happy-go-lucky attitude?

  Having a hard time not staring at her silicone-pimped cleavage, I shrug. “What can I say? The city of sun and fun has turned me into a sodaholic.”

  Throwing her head back, she grunts like Miss Piggy. “That’s funny.”

  I have a nasty reply on the tip of my tongue, but hunter-heroic shows up in time to save her. “Sorry,” he says. “The traffic in this town is—”

  “From outer space?” I groan, eyes on Miss Piggy.

  The chick drools over Alex as if he’s Hollywood’s new boy toy. He isn’t even sitting yet when the blonde vamp bends over the counter and shoves her boobs in his face. “You look like an Elijah Craig kinda guy, am I right?”

  I’d like to believe she treats every customer with so much care, but the hotel doesn’t strike me as a brothel.

  Alex’s eyes slide over her plastic-surgeon-sculpted body, his aura almost instantly changing into a brilliant red. “Sounds good,” he says with a boyish grin, totally digging her.

  It doesn’t come as a surprise to me he has the hots for her. It is, after all, common knowledge among guys that lust has no dignity. I’m still a little disappointed, though. Somehow, I always thought Alex liked his chicks a bit more classy.

  Hips shaking, boobs bouncing, she grabs the expensive bourbon from the shelf behind her and pours him a shot. “Let me know if you need anything else. I make the best Sex on the Beach in town.”

  Excuse me, I think I need to throw up.

  Alex’s gaze jumps from her cleavage to her ass. “I bet you do,” he says, voice like pure sex.

  “Check please!” the foreigner yells as his chick disappears inside the restroom.

  I look at my watch. Nine minutes. Damn, I’m good.

  Miss Piggy smiles a brilliant, unnatural smile and winks at Alex. “Be right back.”

  “Seriously?” I snap when he’s still ogling her ass. “Are you suffering from sex deprivation, or do you like them mentally retarded and compliant?”

  Alex slowly tilts his head to the side. “Jealous?” he asks, lips curled into a devilish grin.

  I cover my mouth with both hands. “Oh. My. God. You’ve got me there.” I point to my perfect, natural body. “How could I keep up with a brainless, silicone-implanted Miss Piggy, right?”

  He sips the bourbon. “Spare me your sarcasm, Manda.”

  Arching a brow, I glare at Miss Piggy, who’s serving a customer on the other side of the horseshoe-shaped bar. “Will do,” I snarl. “Only if you spare me the pathetic flirting though.”

  You sure you’re not jealous?

  Ignoring the voice in my head, I take a sip of soda and turn my attention to what’s really important: the kids and Jesse. “Any luck with your hunter pal?”

  Alex studies me closely. “He didn’t have a zombie cure, if that’s what you’re asking. But…” He pauses and takes another sip. I hate when people stop midsentence to dramatize what they’re about to say.

  “But?”

  Alex’s lips curl into one helluva smile. “I have a name,” he announces proudly. “According to my source, Jesse was looking for a guy who goes by the name of Baron Samedi.”

  I almost choke on my drink. “What? Are you sure?”

  His smile fades. “Yeah. Why? Do you know him?’

  Do I know him? Is he kidding?

  “I thought your hunter pal was a voodoo specialist?”

  Alex’s features harden. “Just answer the damn question, Manda.”

  A frustrated breath escapes me. “Baron Samedi is the god of the dead. There’s no way our bocor goes by that name unless—”

  Glass in his hand, Alex straightens. “Unless what?”

  “Unless our bocor sold his soul to Samedi.”

  Alex’s voice drops low. “Would you stop talking in riddles and tell me what the hell makes you think our bocor sold his soul to that Samedi guy?”

  I give him the what-kind-of-a-hunter-are-you look and sigh. “Voodooists invite loa—”

  “Loa?” A mist of confusion clouds his eyes.

  “Loa are gods,” I explain, and when he nods, I continue. “Anyway, voodooists invite loa into their bodies and offer them gifts so they fulfill their prayers. Each deity has a specific power. So if you’re crazy about a girl who doe
sn’t give you the time of day, you call upon Oshun, the love goddess, offering her honey, a comb, or money.”

  Alex taps his fingers against the counter. “Cut to the chase, Manda.”

  I shoot him a look. “Samedi is the loa of the dead and the only one who can be bribed into harming people. Let’s say you want to castrate your cheating boyfriend. All you have to do is offer him a cigar, rum, and twenty-one peppers, and the deal is done. But if you keep calling him to do your bidding, his price increases. To call yourself Samedi and use his full potential, he will ask for your soul.”

  “Great,” he moans. “So what you’re saying is my brother and these kids are hostages of an ancient god and his puppet?”

  “Not exactly,” I say. “Samedi isn’t really a god. He’s a rogue reaper who found a loophole that gave him what he always wanted.”

  “And what would that be?” Alex asks, jaw clenched.

  “Worshippers,” I reply and take a sip of soda.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” he yells, drawing way too much attention to us. “Couldn’t the dude build himself a church or temple like normal sociopaths?”

  I glance around. “Keep your voice down,” I say, pointing to a couple of eavesdropping customers.

  “I don’t want to keep my fucking voice down,” he shouts, slamming a fist on the counter. “What I do want, however, is for you to tell me how we kill the bastard. Is there a spell or some other witch-mojo to take the freak out?”

  I know he’s mad, but he needs to calm the fuck down. People are already staring, and with everything that’s happening, it isn’t smart discussing magic in public. “You can’t kill a reaper,” I whisper. “It would upset the natural order.”

  Ogling me as if I’m crazy, he cocks a brow. “The natural order? The thing is a killer, Amanda.”

  I massage my temples. “Yeah, smartass. Killing kinda comes with the job description of a reaper. Our real problem is the bocor. The loa doesn’t give a shit about your brother or these kids. He just does what the bocor asks him to do.”

  “Fuck.” Alex reaches for the bourbon and downs the rest in one swallow. “What the hell was Jesse thinking, messing with a voodoo jerk who’s best buddies with a freaking reaper? The boy must have lost his fucking mind.” He looks me in the eye. “I mean, that’s insane, isn’t it?”

 

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