Lovers Sacrifice

by R. A. Steffan

  Instead of straddling Mason on a shabby mattress, she straddled Augustin in a huge four-poster bed, curtained by gauzy white material that turned it into a cozy love nest, hidden away from the outside world.

  Augustin cradled her face tenderly, pressing his lips gently to her cheeks, her forehead, her eyelids—teasing her until she caught his mouth with hers for a proper kiss. She pulled away after a few moments, meeting his hazel eyes, her expression sobering.

  “Augustin, I want to, but we can’t right now. I have to leave before dark, so I can perform the ceremony.”

  Augustin tucked some of her braids behind her ear and regarded her seriously. “You believe one of your spirits will descend tonight, to tell you the best place and time for the slaves to rise up?”

  “I hope they will,” Oksana said. “Lately, it feels as though the loa are pulling away. It frightens me. I don’t know what I’ve done to offend them.”

  He stroked his knuckles over the curve of her cheek, and she closed her eyes, savoring the caress.

  “Do you think it’s because of me?” he asked after a short pause. “Because you married an outsider?”

  She drank in his handsome European features, troubled by his words. “You’ve done as much for our people as anyone, Augustin. Supporting the slaves behind the scenes. Talking to the slave owners and trying to sway them toward emancipation. Why should the loa punish me for loving you?”

  Augustin’s lips twitched in a brief smile. “Why do supernatural beings do anything?” he asked. “If you think it would help, I’ll come along tonight and offer a sacrifice. There’s a bottle of fine rum in the cellar, and I daresay we can spare a cockerel or two in pursuit of a good cause.”

  Oksana smiled brilliantly and kissed him again. “You’re a horrible Catholic, my love,” she said. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

  He snorted. “So many times I’ve lost count, starting when I was six and asked the local priest why he was wearing a dress instead of trousers. I have a poor track record with deities and their earthly representatives, I fear. Now, shall I come tonight? Even if my offering doesn’t sway the spirits, you know how much I adore watching you dance.”

  Love swelled in Oksana’s heart until she thought it might burst. “Yes. Come along with your rum and your cockerel. Who knows? It certainly can’t hurt.”

  The tiny part of her mind that still maintained some awareness of the present quailed. No, no, no, it chanted. Don’t come along… please, no, you mustn’t!

  But it was too late. She and Augustin were no longer in the cozy, gauze-curtained bed. Instead, they were outside, and it was dark.

  No, no, please, no…

  The ceremony was a small one. Large gatherings risked too much attention these days, with tensions running as high as they currently were between he slaves and the foreign plantation owners.

  About a dozen people gathered around the trunk of an ancient mapou tree, chanting and offering sacrifices to Papa Legba—the gatekeeper of the spirit world. Oksana felt unaccountably off-balance. The energy tonight felt… wrong. She wasn’t alone in the feeling, she could tell—several of the older slaves were busy setting out geometric markings of protection on the ground around the group, while other hung trinkets in the branches to appease the angry spirits.

  Oksana raised her voice in rhythmic song, calling for the protective spirits to come down and join them. She was aware of Augustin seated on a blanket nearby, watching the proceedings with the same fascination he always did. At first, his presence had made the others nervous, but his respectful demeanor and the offering of one black cockerel and one white cockerel in addition to the bottle of good rum had quickly appeased them.

  Now, if only it would appease the loa.

  It frightened Oksana on a deep level to feel the way the spirits seemed to be avoiding her lately. Since her childhood, they had been as much a part of her life as any earthly presence. But now, when she needed them most, they floated just out of reach.

  She felt vulnerable. Unprotected. When the oldest of the hounci present in the circle cried out, “The loa do not favor us tonight! We must close the portal to the spirits before evil enters,” it came as no surprise. Several other voices rose in agreement, breaking the chant.

  In the very next moment, freezing black fog descended from the mapou tree’s branches. She heard Augustin shout something, fear in his normally steady voice. Before she could call back, though, the fog surrounded her, filling her mouth and nose like foul, oily water.

  Oh, my child, crooned a chilling voice, you thought opening yourself to these foolish folk spirits would make you strong. Instead, they only opened the way for me.

  Oksana flailed, panic overtaking her. She tried to flee, to escape the suffocating mist. But she couldn’t even breathe without drawing the darkness deeper inside herself, and jagged flashes of light started to flash behind her tightly closed eyelids as her lungs burned.

  Begone, she thought desperately. Begone, evil spirit, begone!

  The dark voice laughed, a grating sound that scraped against her skin like sandpaper. Witless girl, it taunted. You think yourself more powerful than me? You have much to learn.

  A terrible weight drove Oksana to the ground, crushing her until she felt ribs snapping like sticks. She opened her mouth to scream, but the greasy black fog rushed in, choking her before she could emit so much as a squeak.

  You are mine. I will do to you whatever I please. Take from you whatever I please. And what pleases me tonight is to take your soul.

  A horrible tearing feeling in her chest brought tears to her eyes. At first, she thought her broken bones must be slicing into her organs, but it was even worse than that. Fire erupted inside her, burning up every bit of moisture in her body. An agony worse than anything she had ever known overtook her. Her last thought, before thought became impossible, was a plea for the spirits to protect her—to protect Augustin and the others from this terrible evil.

  There was no reply.

  *

  Thirst beyond bearing brought her back to something that might have been called awareness. She was empty, so very empty, and if she didn’t fill herself up right now, the madness swirling at the edges of her mind would consume her.

  “Oksana!” The hoarse shout was audible now through the clearing darkness. The fog disappeared, sinking into the ground she was lying on. “Oksana—dear God, no!”

  Hands were grasping her, lifting her, cradling her against something warm that thrummed with the nourishment she craved. She had to have that warmth, that life, that sweet liquid rushing under the tender barrier of skin. She had to have it now.

  Nothing else mattered. Her terrible injuries didn’t matter. The cries of fear and alarm echoing around them didn’t matter. Only the gaping emptiness mattered. Only the succulent, rushing fount of life hovering over her was real.

  “Loup garou!” other voices were crying. “Hurry, hurry! Get nets and weapons!”

  Hands tried to drag the thrumming source of life away from her, but it only held her more tightly, growling, “Get away from us—get your hands off! I’m not leaving her!”

  She groaned, the sound scraping along her parched throat like broken glass.

  Gentle fingers tilted her face upward, until her lips and teeth were only inches from throbbing veins hidden under thin, breakable skin. A blue-gray gaze looked down at her, wide and frightened.

  “Oksana, my dearest love,” The voice choked. “Mother of God, your eyes! What has happened to you? What can I do?”

  Another voice answered. “You can do nothing for her, blan. Evil has stolen her soul! You must get away from her, before she kills you and uses your blood to strengthen herself!”

  The hands holding her tightened again, and Oksana’s lips pressed against the salty flesh—all that stood between her and what she needed to fill up the emptiness. Her canines lengthened and sharpened, scraping at the inside of her cheeks.

  “Wait,” the voice above her said, oblivious to the th
reat she posed. “She looks so pale. You say my blood can… help her, somehow? Can strengthen her? I’ve seen your people give blood offerings to the loa before—”

  “No, fool! You mustn’t!” The other voice cried, even as her fangs sank into the delectable banquet before her.

  Her victim gasped, shuddering in her grip as her fingers dug into him like talons. “Oksana,” he croaked, “It’s all right, beloved… if this will save you—” An ugly gurgling noise erupted under the choked words. “All I have is… yours… it always has been…”

  The sweet lifeblood flowed over her tongue, bringing relief from the agony of thirst and longing. She shook her head back and forth savagely—a mindless attempt to get more, more, more until the spurts slowed to a trickle, and then, to nothing.

  She wailed in frustration, giving the bloodless corpse a final shake and letting it drop. More warm bodies approached from behind her. She whirled, ready to pounce, but a heavy rope net enveloped her before she could spring at them. The wail rose to a shriek as she tore at the tangled ropes confining her.

  “Is he dead?” frantic voices babbled. “Did she kill him?”

  Something about the words penetrated the haze of bloodlust in her mind, and a new kind of emptiness replaced the aching thirst. Her thoughts were still mired in animal rage at the net trapping her, though, and she could not concentrate on the slow-growing feeling of dread hiding beneath the panic.

  “Is she cursed? What should we do with her?” the onlookers asked, and the commanding voice replied, “Bring a coffin, and someone go find me an iron spike and a mallet.”

  Oksana roared, her body twisting and rippling. Feathers erupted from her blood-soaked skin, her limbs trying to contort into new shapes and failing.

  “Look. Her human soul is gone,” the commanding voice intoned. “She is loup garou now. She is cursed, and her spirit has merged with an animal’s. Give me one of the poisoned darts.”

  A moment later, something sharp pierced her neck and lodged there. She tried to scrabble at it with her hands, but they were hopelessly tangled in the ropes. She struggled and spat and screamed and snarled, but the dart remained lodged in place.

  Numbness stole across her senses by degrees, radiating outward from the stinging point embedded in her neck. Her feverish thrashing grew slower. Less coordinated. Gradually, her body went limp. Her open eyes stared upward. She was aware of what was happening, but unable to move or make a noise.

  She was aware of the net being removed.

  She was aware of Augustin’s broken body lying nearby like a child’s discarded rag doll, when the jostling as she was moved made her head loll in that direction.

  She was aware of being lowered into a simple wood coffin, and of the fierce agony as they nailed her left foot to the bottom with the iron spike, to keep her from wandering free of her grave.

  She was aware of the lid closing, and the coffin being lowered into a hastily dug hole.

  She was aware of the dirt raining down on top of her, burying her and muffling the sounds from above until there was nothing but the noise of her sluggish heartbeat reflected back at her.

  She was aware of the air growing stale. A board in the coffin lid cracked under the weight of the earth above. When a trickle of fine dirt started raining down onto her face, she couldn’t even move enough to close her eyes or roll her head out of the way. Blind panic swallowed her, sending her into the blessed relief of darkness.

  When her consciousness returned, the paralysis had lifted. She flailed, trying to get away from the soil covering her eyes, nose, and mouth. Her arms hit the side of the coffin and her forehead impacted the lid, which lay only inches above her face. At the same moment, her left foot exploded in icy agony as it jerked against the iron spike nailing it in place.

  Unaccustomed strength flooded her limbs. She went mad, tearing at wood until she could reach her left leg, then tearing at flesh, sinew, and bone with the single-mindedness of a trapped animal set on escaping its prison at that very instant, or else dying in the attempt.

  There was a horrible cracking noise, followed by a ripping, tearing sensation, and she was free of the icy burn of the iron that had pierced her. The coffin lay in splinters around her, dirt sliding and shifting in to take its place. She turned her attention to the wet weight of it pressing down on her from above, clawing at it with bloody fingers.

  *

  Escape was the only thought in Oksana’s mind as she scrambled backward, away from arms that tried to hold onto her for only an instant before letting go. Someone was saying something—sharp words of worry. Questions. She couldn’t understand any of it. Nearby, the sun burned in a sky hazy with low clouds. She fled its terrifying heat, seeking shelter in the darkest place she could find, aware that she was half-stumbling, thumping into walls and using her hands to pull herself along.

  When she could go no further, she put her back against an unyielding surface and curled up into a ball, rocking. Her eyes were unfocused; her mind blank as it tried to reject the horror of what had been done to her. Of what she had done to herself.

  Of what she had done to the man she loved.

  Time passed; she could not have said how much. A silhouette filled the doorway, its shape familiar. Oksana blinked, and the silhouette resolved into Xander, bleary-eyed and disheveled from interrupted sleep. He paused, looked at her intently for a long moment, and then wandered further into the room, giving her a wide berth. A moment later, he fetched up against a bare stretch of wall next to a low altar lit with candles, and slid down to sit across from her, still regarding her with a steady green gaze.

  “Did I wake you?” Oksana asked faintly. She looked around at the space Mama Lovelie used for ceremonies, taking it in, along with her position jammed into one corner. “Sorry—I didn’t realize I wasn’t shielding. I don’t… quite know what just happened.” She scrubbed at her eyes. They were wet.

  Xander drew his knees up and rested his chin on them, searching her face. “No, Oksana. You didn’t wake me,” he said, with studied casualness. “Your cute doctor did. Said you, and I quote, ‘demonstrated several symptoms typical of a PTSD episode,’ and I should come check on you. You want me to go get Duchess for you instead? I’m afraid I’m no one’s idea of emotional support.”

  Oksana shook her head. “No, let her sleep. Again, I’m sorry about that. I don’t know why Mason woke you rather than just coming after me himself.”

  A smirk tugged briefly at one corner of Xander’s mouth, making the years fall away from his handsome face. “Ah. Well. About that. I might or might not have given him the shovel talk the other day, you see.”

  Oksana blinked, her eyes going wide, some of her earlier horror draining away to be replaced by shock. “Xander. You didn’t.”

  Xander shrugged, still watching her. “I might’ve done. So, talk to me. What happened? Do Duchess and I need to start scouting places to dispose of a body?”

  Oksana shivered and looked away. “Don’t even joke.”

  But Xander wouldn’t let it go so easily. “Oksana. Did he do something to upset you?”

  She scowled at him. “No, he didn’t. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Then, what?”

  Another tremor wracked her, and she hugged her knees. “We were… sitting together on the veranda. It was nice, at first. But then, I started remembering the night I killed him. The night Bael tried to take me.” She met Xander’s eyes again. “Did you know my foot is still buried here on the island somewhere, in an unmarked grave outside the capital?”

  His brows drew together. “I’d always wondered why it didn’t just grow back. Jesus, Oksana.” He took a slow breath and let it out. “You know, the others almost seem to delight in wallowing in the horrific natures of their pasts. But you and me—we’re different. We really… don’t. And I’m starting to think… maybe… we’re not doing ourselves any favors by pretending that horror never happened to us.”

  “I can’t go back there, Xander,” Oksana said. “I
can’t. If being with him means reliving it like this, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  Duchess chose that moment to enter the room, silently crossing to curl up at Oksana’s side and pull her into a one-armed embrace. “It will work out somehow, ma chérie.”

  To Oksana’s surprise, Xander rose and crossed to crouch in front of her, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of her head. He stroked a callused, long-fingered hand over her hair before settling back to sit on his heels.

  “It will, you know,” he agreed. “If His Royal Broodiness and the Emotionally Constipated Bookworm can make it work for them, I have no doubt you can do it as well. You’re probably the most deserving of any of us. Right now, though, I’m honestly more worried about this vodou spell. Are you absolutely sure you won’t let me confront the bokor instead?”

  “Or better yet, let me do it,” Duchess aid. “As I said earlier, I’m the oldest, and the most powerful. Xander’s a mere babe in arms by comparison—barely past his hundredth birthday.”

  Oksana shook her head. “No, it won’t work right. The loa are African folk spirits. You two don’t have the same connection with them that I do. Let’s save Xander’s youth and your power for putting me back together afterward, in case it all goes wrong, shall we?” She looked down at her prosthesis, and her voice turned wry. “Well, the parts of me you can find, at any rate.”

  Duchess pulled her in close and pressed a sisterly kiss to the top of her head in the same place Xander’s lips had brushed earlier. “Always, petite soeur. You know we’ll never let you fall apart.”

  TWELVE

  MASON PACED UP AND DOWN the short hallway in front of the door where Oksana had disappeared after fleeing his embrace. His hair was mussed from running his hands through it, and his emotions felt just as messy right now.

  She’d kissed him. And what a kiss it had been, until—

  The door opened, and Oksana emerged, still looking pale. Her friends flanked her on either side, and she looked up at each of them in turn, as if for support. Duchess squeezed an arm around her shoulders before letting it slide away, while Xander placed a hand on her back in a brief, supportive gesture. Then, they peeled away and left her alone with Mason. Xander’s disconcerting green gaze pinned his for a long moment as he walked past, heading toward the sitting room.