The Secrets of Blood and Bone

by Rebecca Alexander

  “Julian explained this place to me,” she murmured into his ear. “This is the social room, where people meet their friends or dally with strangers.”

  “Dally. What a great word,” he said, looking around the room trying not to be distracted by the warm silkiness against his leg. “There are other rooms?”

  Julian took a glass from a tray held out by a young man, who was almost naked apart from red silk shorts and a bow tie. Felix declined a drink or one of the pills arranged in a pattern around the glasses.

  “This club is mostly interested in sexual freedoms,” Julian said, “although others come here for spiritual reasons.”

  “Spiritual?”

  “Many of them believe blood is a gift of energy. Drinking blood, for them, is a sacred act, a gift of life from one being to another.” He smiled at Gina. “Others consider blood the ultimate sexual and emotional submission.”

  Gina’s eyes gleamed behind the mask as she sipped her drink. “I have met blood takers who believe the ingesting of blood is essential for their health,” she said. “The ultimate antidote to death.”

  Felix glanced around at the others in the room, who seemed to be kissing and touching each other with a freedom perhaps enhanced by the masks. “Doesn’t that sound more like a psychological dependence? It was described to me as an addiction, the sufferer feels that they need rather than want the drug.”

  “It is somewhat like a drug.” Gina leaned closer. “Before I met Julian I thought it was just a fetish, and a dangerous one at that. But then—I tried it.”

  “You did? Is that what you meant by immersive research?”

  “And you tried it too, with this woman, the revenant.” She touched his knee briefly. “No judgments, remember? We are just here to help you understand.” Her smile broadened. “And have a little fun teasing the shy Englishman, of course.”

  He smiled, but it felt like a grimace. “So, explain to me: what has this to do with what you call revenants?”

  Julian stretched back in his seat as a woman came over to him, placed a card in his open hand, and sauntered away, swaying like a tree in a storm. “Some of the patrons of this club hope to become immortal by becoming revenants in the European tradition.”

  Felix’s understanding of borrowed time was that only people close to death, those who were destined to die without supernatural intervention, could become borrowed timers. “I don’t understand.”

  “In the tradition of our revenants, willing subjects, offer themselves to the ‘blood ritual’ over months or even years as donors.” Julian looked at the card and smiled. “Eventually they require a ritual we call ‘ascension,’ then a regular treatment of traditional remedies, and, of course, libations of blood from willing volunteers.”

  “Our tradition is different.” Felix wondered how much he should share with the man.

  “We must compare notes.” Julian nodded to a passing couple. “This woman, this friend of yours—”

  “Was close to death in childhood. She was saved by someone who knew the sorcery of Dee and Kelley. She uses symbols which seem to strengthen her, and herbs to keep her healthy.”

  Julian turned back to Felix and stared at him. “What kind of symbols?” His interest was intense, almost sexually speculative, and Felix felt even more uncomfortable.

  “It was based on a European tradition.” He took a deep breath. “I am deciphering private journals that Kelley kept in his travel through Europe. He was involved in treating a woman who was born to someone who was a revenant herself, and Dee tried to find a way to prevent her death. These are the symbols borrowed timers still use.”

  “But no blood?” The man stood. “Interesting. Come with me, Felix. Let me introduce you to a supplicant who is being transformed—she hopes—by the blood ritual.”

  Gina turned to talk to another woman, and Felix rose and followed Julian into the adjoining room, and to an alcove. Here a raised platform was occupied by a woman who appeared to be in her thirties, lying on a heap of cushions. Another woman, perhaps only in her teens or early twenties, was kissing her, murmuring to her. A man, half-naked and clearly aroused, was bent over her wrist, his mouth pressed to her skin.

  “Aurélie,” Julian said softly. “May we speak with you?”

  The woman turned to them. Her skin was chalky white, her body too thin, bones visible where her scanty clothing was disordered. “Julian, darling.” Her voice was breathy and soft. “Do you come to share?”

  “Not today. I have brought a friend, whose interest is in ascension.”

  The gaze swiveled onto Felix. “I am tired. Perhaps another day.” She tensed, and made a little mew of pain. The man suckling at her wrist lifted his face and licked his lips. The torn flesh was vivid against her pale skin, slowly oozing drops of blood. The young man bent his head again, this time to caress the woman, trailing kisses up the inside of her elbow.

  “I think his knowledge of the immortals is unique. He seeks only to understand.” Julian looked around, then reached for a dressing. “You have given enough, today, perhaps too much. You cannot hurry ascension, Aurélie; it is dangerous.”

  “So people are progressively weakened through giving blood?” Felix was interested in spite of himself. “At what point would you intervene with the ritual?”

  The woman stared at him, and then at Julian, but after a long moment she answered, “When the spirits advise us.”

  “Spirits?”

  Julian finished dressing the superficial wound. “As people grow weaker the spirits gather around. They make it clear when death is close. Then the blood ritual begins.”

  “These spirits—”

  “Angels,” the young woman murmured.

  Julian turned to Felix. “I would rather describe them as orishas, spirits or aspects of gods. They gather, they whisper. Sometimes they speak through chosen oracles.”

  “And what are the benefits for the—ascended?”

  The woman weakly struggled to sit, her female companion helping to lift her up the cushions. “The ascended are our superiors. To be chosen to become one is to become an immortal walking among mortals.”

  Julian added, “The body is healed, and continues without aging.”

  “And you have been chosen?” Felix spoke gently, as the woman seemed stiffly hostile.

  “I hope to be.” She lifted her injured arm and stared at it.

  “And if you are not? Chosen?”

  She looked back at Felix, blue eyes shining in sunken sockets. “Then I will die.”

  Chapter 8

  PRESENT DAY: NEW ORLEANS

  Felix stretched out in the king-sized bed before he remembered the details of the evening before. The soft breathing beside him made him aware of the recollection of the hours of drinking on nothing more substantial than a sandwich, and the effect of the sensual atmosphere in the club. More than anything, he was conscious of the proximity of Gina.

  The last time he had had sex it had been with his wife, Marianne, nearly a year before. A moment of tenderness so ordinary and spontaneous that he had barely remembered it, not knowing it was the last time. Jack had made it plain that she didn’t want a relationship, so why did he feel unfaithful?

  “Mm, Felix.” Gina ran one hand down his back, and it felt good. “Good morning.”

  “Ah.” He rolled over to see her leaning on one elbow, smiling. “Good morning.”

  Her grin broadened. “I’m guessing you don’t have a lot of spontaneous sex?”

  He managed a smile. “Not for a long time. I’ve only just got divorced. Was it obvious?”

  “Not last night.” She lay back down on the pillow. “God, I don’t want to get up. But I have to teach a seminar.”

  His hand reached out, almost involuntarily, and touched her shoulder. Her skin was perfectly smooth, stretched over long limbs. He shrugged off the lingering guilt. “Anything I would be interested in?”

  “Not really. But later I was going to take you to a bembé, at Julian’s house.” She
slipped out of bed, and stood beside it. “I’ve never been to one before, it’s a huge privilege to be invited. It’s a ritual of dancing and chanting, to invite an orisha into a willing participant.”

  “I think I’ve been to similar events in Africa.” He looked at her as she stood, unselfconsciously naked, lifting a corner of a curtain to look outside. She was as relaxed as if they had been lovers for years. He pushed the memory of Jack away.

  “Come on.”

  “Come on?” He was only puzzled for a moment as she grinned at him.

  “If I’m going to miss breakfast and be late for my seminar, I want to clean my teeth first.”

  —

  Felix had had an interesting morning in the university library, reading more of Gina’s research. He was grateful that she didn’t seem to share some of the more extreme fetishes she researched. He was self-conscious just reading the journals in the crowded library, and jumped when she tapped him on the shoulder.

  They shared a taxi to Prudhomme’s house. Julian lived in Faubourg Marigny, a neighborhood adjacent to the French Quarter, and slightly less busy. The building, a Greek revival mansion, had a large garden to one side and railings along the front. The door was opened by a man Felix recognized as Auguste, the chauffeur from the night before.

  “Please follow me.”

  Gina slipped her hand into Felix’s, her fingers trembling against his. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m excited,” she said, but something about her expression suggested there was more to it. “I’ve always wanted to attend one of Julian’s bembés.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “It’s a ceremony where people open themselves up to the spirits. It’s a state of ecstasy, a kind of spiritual intoxication.” She took a deep breath. “It’s supposed to have healing qualities.”

  Before he could pursue that thought, Auguste threw open double doors which led into a room the whole width of the house. The space was probably over forty feet wide and more than half that deep. Four pairs of French doors led outside but they were shuttered, slivers of light spattering the polished wood floor.

  “Wait here, please,” Auguste said in a soft voice, and he disappeared back through the doors.

  Felix looked out of one of the shutters’ narrow slits, onto the garden. It was rambling, enclosed by a wall and a number of trees and shrubs. The room was stuffy and he wished he could open the doors. “This bembé sounds like some of the rituals in Benin I attended. In fact, a lot of Western African countries have festivals where various manifestations of God are invited into willing volunteers.”

  “Exactly.” Julian’s deep voice took Felix by surprise. “Those traditions traveled to Cuba and other Caribbean islands with the enslaved Africans. The roots are in Yoruba, the indigenous belief system.” Felix turned to see Julian walking toward them dressed in a long, colorful robe, his head and feet bare.

  Felix shook the other man’s hand. “I studied similar rituals in Togo and Benin back in the nineties.”

  Julian laughed. “That’s why I invited you.” He bowed slightly as he took Gina’s hand, then shook Felix’s with both hands. “This is similar. My friends, my congregation, as it were, will be here shortly. I just wanted the chance to speak privately with you first.”

  “Thank you. This is very kind of you.” Felix looked around the room, half in shadow from the drawn curtains covering most of a wall of windows. Auguste carried in a large box, which sounded like it had something scuffling inside it.

  “I hope you aren’t squeamish,” Julian said. “Sometimes the ritual demands an animal sacrifice. We are as humane as possible, of course.”

  “How do the authorities view sacrifice?” Felix said, feeling Gina grip his arm more tightly.

  “Provided the animals are dispatched without cruelty, no more than if we killed it to eat it. This ritual is focused on healing the sick, an interest I know Gina shares.”

  The doors opened again and three people entered, also dressed in colorful clothes. One was an elderly white woman, leaning on a stick, another was a rather tired-looking black youth, and a woman who appeared to be his mother. More followed, a mixture of ethnicities and ages. Julian gathered them around him, speaking to them quietly, shaking hands.

  Felix turned to Gina. “If this is anything like the rituals I have observed it’s going to get loud.” He pointed at the drums being carried by two of the men, large cylindrical objects painted with symbols. He smiled at one of the men, and walked over. “These are great, what are they?”

  “They are called bembé, like the ritual,” one man answered. He put his hand protectively around the drum.

  “Do you play them?”

  “The orisha plays them through me.”

  Before Felix could ask any more questions, Julian called for the group to gather. Felix rejoined Gina at the edge of the room. “I know an orisha is a spirit that mediates between mortals and God. These rituals, in Africa anyway, call upon the spirit to inhabit a person, who will then relay messages and work the spells. What Julian described as an ‘oracle,’ a vessel for the orisha.”

  “I’m getting goose bumps.” She sounded uneasy.

  He smiled at her. “Last night you took me to a fetish club. You think that didn’t make me nervous?”

  She smiled back, but then the drumming started. At first it was just a heartbeat, resonating around the room, ju-jum, ju-jum, slowly echoing. The circle of people swayed to its rhythm, and the room seemed to fill with a dense quiet that was only pierced by the deep sound of the bembé.

  The second one joined in, the drummer bringing his whole body into each beat. The group began to chant, not English as he’d expected, but fragments of another language. He recognized the odd ritual phrase which sounded like a Bantu dialect. It seemed to be pleading with someone to join them.

  An older woman started singing, a wail of entreaty, and she danced into the center of the circle, stamping with emphasis. Others clapped in counterpoint to the drums, the swaying becoming dancing. Felix clapped along, letting the energy of the music that was building pull him in.

  “I’m scared.” Gina clutched his arm, pulling it down to stop him clapping.

  “This is just the welcome. You get this at any religious service, even Christianity. Music, shared purpose, chanted words, they all create a certain kind of resonance in the brain.” He gripped her hand, trying to reassure her, but she was shaking.

  “I don’t like it. We have to go.”

  He was torn. Julian seemed the most likely person to help with his research into the blood rituals, and he didn’t want to offend him. He pulled Gina, unresisting, into his arms. “It’s fine. It’s just dancing.”

  She seemed to relax a little, so he turned back to the circle.

  Julian threw back his head and called to the orishas to join them. His voice boomed out again and again. The music was wilder now, creating a trancelike state in some of the dancers.

  An older woman, tall and gaunt, swayed over to the animal box, her feet stamping in rhythm with the drums. She reached in and dragged out a flapping black chicken. Still dancing, she held it up by one wing and the neck and showed it to the group. It fought, attempting to crow, flapping its free wing in distress. She started to whirl, as if showing off the wretched animal. It was passed overhead to another dancer, then a third, its struggles more desperate as it was almost thrown from one to another. Finally, Julian snatched it from another man, and held it firmly in both hands, its wings pressed onto its body, only its open beak and staring eyes registering its distress. He put it under one arm and drew a silver knife. With a theatrical sweep he sliced the bird’s head straight off. Blood spurted over the waiting crowd, as if they waited to be anointed with it.

  A shriek was followed by a man falling to the ground, his back arched, his whole body vibrating as if in an epileptic fit. Gina buried her face against Felix’s shoulder; he could feel her shaking. More shrieks, more wild dancing, as a young woman tore at her clothes, the
n whirled around in the space, her bare feet padding on the polished wood. Stamping feet, the drums and the rhythmic grunting and wailing set up a vibration inside Felix, who remembered the joyful beat of local weddings and funerals at his grandmother’s house in Yamoussoukro in the Côte d’Ivoire. Gina clung to him, but he hardly noticed her until one of her nails grazed his chest through his shirt.

  She started to pant as if she were running up stairs, and when she looked at Felix her eyes were huge, wide open in what looked like terror. She mouthed something, maybe his name, before she fell back so abruptly he barely caught her, falling to one knee with her slumped in his arms. She twitched, before starting to shake, as he had seen the others do. He became aware that people were starting to stamp toward them, forming a loose circle, the chanting more focused now. She convulsed, and he laid her gently on the ground. When she screamed aloud the noise seemed to pierce his head, and he stood, stepping back one pace. He looked at Julian, scarcely recognizing the man, his whole face contorted, eyes rolled back, his arms rigid and trembling in front of him. He seemed to be summoning something, and, in a moment, Felix felt something change in the room. Objectively he couldn’t identify it, but the atmosphere in the room seemed to get hotter, and the air vibrated with the sound of the drums. He couldn’t help raising his hands to his ears to protect them.

  Gina writhed on the floor as he had seen the others do, tearing at her clothes, until her shirt was ripped. Her tongue was stretched out of her mouth, her eyes staring, her hands claws that tore at her skin, livid scratches appearing on her chest and arms. Finally, she screeched, and slumped back, eyes closed.

  He stepped forward, worried, but two men grabbed his arms and held him. He waited, and watched. The room fell silent, even the drums stopping.

  She was breathing, her chest rising and falling in an exaggerated way. When her eyes snapped open it was a shock, and he realized there was a low growling coming from her throat, squirming itself into words, as if she no longer had an idea how to speak.

  Julian started a new chant. “Elegba,” he called, his voice ringing around the room. The drums sounded, once, twice. “Elegba, speak to us!” A low hum of others’ voices chanting joined in. Felix recognized the name of the orisha, Elegba, from his reading, Èṣù, in the original Yoruba, the trickster. Gina closed her eyes and moaned as if in agony, and this time Felix shook off the hands restraining him and dropped to one knee beside her.