Voodoo Knights

by Amanda Rose

  The Invisibles? I need to check in and get off this crazy lady's property ASAP.

  “Um, thanks, I guess? Anyway, I'm just stopping by to say hi and let you know I'm getting settled in just fine,” I reply, hoping I can get the fuck out of here before I end up as part of some voodoo sacrifice or something. When Mrs. DeBellevue doesn't reply, and it starts to get awkward, I try to fill the silence. “So … yeah. I’d better head home before it gets dark or whatever. It was nice meeting you.” I give a little wave that I'm not even sure she can see then tuck my right hand in the pocket of my skinny jeans as I back up, nice and slow.

  “Best feed that cat.” She bites off the last word like she’s just said something dirty. She reaches up and pulls a dirty burlap sack off a hook and throws it at my feet. Even though I’m a tad—okay, a lot—skeptical, I bend down and pick it up. On the ground not half a foot from the bag is a line of the same red dirt that’s around my new house.

  “What is this red dust stuff anyway?” I ask, and Mrs. DeBellevue purses her lips. Shit, maybe I've broken some Southern taboo or something? Coming from Alaska, I feel like I’m a little out of my depth here. Ask me about snow, and I’ll have an answer, but lines of red dirt and Southern manners? I’m not so sure about those.

  “Brick dust,” she says, turning around and going inside, letting the door slam shut behind her. I don't care what dad says: I'm never stepping foot on this lady's property again.

  The walk back to Laveau manor is more than a mile—and it totally sucks. Both houses have these ridiculously long driveways. Plus, the sun is going down, so I have to walk as fast as I can, trying to ignore the feeling of being watched yet again. Hopefully, it’s just that damn cat.

  As soon as I’m back on the main road, I text my dad.

  'I stopped by Mrs. DeBellevue's house. She is a total freakshow! Honestly, if I end up dead, the crazy lady next door did it.' I try to make a joke, but the sun is going down fast, and the trees are casting long shadows. The buzzing of insects and the chirping of crickets only seems to enhance the velvety night that’s fast approaching. I start to walk faster until I hear a tree branch snap behind me and glance back. Nothing there not even a possum.

  Maybe I really am going crazy?

  I take a small sigh of relief when I see the fancy wrought iron gates of Laveau Manor. Thank God. I might actually get home before full dark sets in. Living in remote Alaska my whole life, I know nighttime in the country is pitch-black and that I won’t be able to see my hand in front of my face. I’m so laser-focused on the approaching blackness and on getting home, I don't see the guy leaning against the gate.

  Just as I pass through the fence, I hear a whisper of cool breath on my ear.

  “You're late.” A shiver runs down my spine. “Almost too late.” A voice like velvet sends a rush of heat through my body. There’s power in that voice; it just drips otherworldly strength, like a spell is being cast. With every syllable, I become more enthralled.

  I look up.

  When my eyes meet the tempest-tossed gray of the voice owner’s savage gaze, time itself stands still.

  I can't move.

  I can't even breathe.

  Every second I stand there, the pull gets even stronger, the sounds of crickets and other critters fading into oblivion.

  Silence. The nighttime sounds of the bayou disappear altogether. The only sound that can be heard in the now soundless twilight is the pulsing and thumping of my frantically beating heart. I feel it then, a pressure, an almost imperceptible urge that tells me to step toward him. I want to, but the little voice in the back of my mind is saying something is wrong. Telling me to resist the siren call. Screaming at me to run. But I can't. My foot lifts to take a step toward the dark stranger, and I almost do, my shoe hovering in the air for several moments. At the last second, I change my mind and take a step back instead.

  The second my foot touches the ground, it's like a bubble’s been burst. The nighttime sounds are suddenly back, as if someone turned on a radio at full-blast. The spell is broken, and I can breathe again. The tattooed boy glaring down at me with storm gray eyes is sin and sex incarnate. Skin the color of freshly fallen snow, razored ebony hair falling over a handsome, sculpted face. His lean, muscular frame is draped in low-slung jeans, a loose white tank top, and a black bomber jacket. Across his chest is a red messenger bag with a big black 'X' stitched into the side.

  I try to keep my cool. Unfortunately for me, my voice comes out sounding a bit panicked.

  “What the fuck was that? And who the hell are you? I don’t much like being snuck up on,” I snap, gesturing at nothing in particular. His full, kissable lips, previously frozen in a seemingly permanent frown, morph into a wicked smirk. Without saying another word, he turns around and starts walking away, the sound of gravel crunching with every footstep. For some reason, this really, really pisses me off. I don't friggin’ care how hot he is, I hope I never have to see the stupid prick ever again.

  “Oh, fine, don’t answer me! Screw you too, asshole,” I yell after him. Then, I blink and he’s just gone.

  #

  The cat is lying on my bed, listening to me rant about the douche on the road.

  “I hope he gets hit by a bus,” I grumble, digging around in boxes and trying to find my pajamas. “I mean, who the hell does he even think he is?” I continue to rant, throwing a glance at the cat lounging on my black bedspread, eyes closed, the white 'X' clearly visible on his side from this angle.

  The room is even more of a crowded mess than it was this morning, the contents of half a dozen boxes or so lying all over the floor. My books and manga are basically the only things put away. I was so excited by the idea of a reading nook that I started by unpacking those boxes first. Should have unpacked clothes instead, I guess. Hindsight being twenty-twenty and all that.

  “What did he mean late? Late for what?” After digging through basically every box, I find the one I was looking for, pulling out some sweatpants and a cami with the grinning face of the Cheshire Cat on it. “Are all hot guys assholes? If so, I'm glad I still have my friggin’ V-card.” The cat’s gold eyes open to stare straight at me, suddenly alert. I blush, feeling stupidly self-conscious about telling a cat I'm still a virgin.

  I pull off my shirt and he sits straight up. Either I'm losing it or there’s something seriously wrong with this cat. I try to shake off the feeling of being watched. There is no one in here and your curtains and bedroom door are closed. I reach up to unclasp my bra when my blue-gray eyes meet the cat’s golden ones. He’s watching me intently, his gaze raking me up and down, taking in every detail. Did the cat just check me out? No, can't be. I'm just tired and imagining it.

  “Are peeping on me, you little perv? Cause I kicked the shit out of the last guy who tried,” I joke, referring to last year when I was staying the night at Andrea Mosser's house. The boy next door was watching us change through the window. I chased him down the road and gave him five stitches and two black eyes.

  The cat drops his gaze suddenly, like he's embarrassed that I caught him doing something he shouldn't be doing. This, I decide, is all the crazy I can take in one night. I shoo him off my bed and out the door, locking it behind him. I finish changing, brush my teeth, and snuggle in under the covers as quickly as I can.

  I was worried I might not be able to go to sleep, but I'm out as soon as my head hits the pillow.

  That night, my dreams are hung with bones and cloth dolls, dead rabbits, and two pairs of eyes—one gray and one gold—watching me from the shadows.

  I wake to the sound of voices, shooting out of bed to grab my glasses and phone off the nightstand. My first thought is that someone broke into my new house. As I reach for the baseball bat again, I happen to glance out my bedroom window and see a blond guy in my backyard. He’s talking to the creepy/cool voodoo witch tree in the middle of the grass, the one that’s so big that if there were three of me, I couldn't wrap my arms around it.

  Without thinking, I race d
own the stairs and out the back door. Preemptively, I type 911 into my phone as I go—just in case. The guy doesn’t look threatening, but you never know with people.

  “Hey you, Blondie. This is private property. If you don't get lost, I'm gonna call the cops,” I yell at him as I close the distance between us.

  He turns around and I finally get a look at him, a big smile plastered across classically handsome features. I know instantly that we’ll get along, he and I—that is, we would if we weren’t trespassing in my yard. Holy fuck, this guy is exactly my type. My eyes flick to the orange and black Zero skateboard clutched in his right hand. An oversized white tank with a big black ‘X’—um, what’s up with all these X’s?—hangs loosely, exposing rounded biceps and a muscular chest. It’s partially tucked into black cargo shorts, giving the guy this relaxed, easygoing sort of look. Mussy golden waves are half-hidden under a black beanie, and thick blond lashes frame the most devastatingly beautiful golden eyes I’ve ever seen. But, more than anything, it’s his smile I’m attracted to. A flirtatious charming curve of lips that takes handsome features and transforms them into something absolutely breathtaking.

  “Blondie, huh?” he says with a laugh. The sound is everything a laugh should be: genuine, carefree, and contagious. He reaches up absentmindedly and adjusts his knitted beanie.

  “Who are you?” I ask. This time my voice comes out a lot less forceful, and I can't help but return his smile with one of my own. His good cheer is freaking infectious.

  “Name’s Zandor,” Skater Boy says, gesturing at himself. He pauses for a second, rubbing the back of his neck a little self-consciously, like maybe he’s deciding whether or not to tell me something. “I used to live here with Rosette Laveau you know . . . before she died.” I don't know what I expected him to say, but this was definitely not it.

  “You used to live here?” I choke out, gesturing toward the grand old mansion.

  “Yep. The room with the purple door is mine.” I can feel my guard going down. Not good, Sera. You can't trust a dude just because he has a nice smile and toned arms. Ugh, what am I doing? I’m not some boy-crazy, hormone-filled nutjob; I have a brain to think with, thank you very much.

  “That still doesn't explain why you're here. What were you doing? Cause I'm pretty sure I saw you talking to that tree,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him.

  “Now, why would I do a thing like that?” Zandor says with mock surprise. His golden eyes are sparkling with mischief. He takes several graceful steps, his long legs closing the distance between us in moments, enveloping me in his scent. Bubblegum. He smells like freaking bubblegum. “I bet a cool chick like you picked the room with the white door,” Zandor continues, his body leaning ever so slightly toward me. Oh my God, a sexy skater dude that smells like bubblegum is hardcore flirting with me. I flirt back without meaning to; I can't seem to help myself.

  Okay, so maybe I’m suffering from a few age-induced hormones.

  “What makes you think that?” My voice sounds just a little too coy for my liking. I stand up straighter, looking him right in his gorgeous eyes. “Are you stalking me?”

  “No, nothing like that. You seemed like someone who likes books—and cats—as much as I do.” He points at the black ink drawing of the Cheshire Cat on my shirt, the one from the original novel. Or else he’s pointing at my boobs, I’m not sure. I almost slap his hand away. Almost. “And that room has the most epic fucking window seat/reading nook.” Maybe I should invite him in? Wait, no. That’s a really bad idea. Wait till Dad gets here. Inviting some guy I don't even know into my house while I'm here alone is about as safe as playing Russian roulette with a fully-loaded gun. Before I can think of some witty response, Zandor surprises me yet again.

  “Maybe we should hang out sometime?”

  “Are you asking me out?” I hedge, voice thick with disbelief.

  “Of course. Why wouldn't I ask out a super-hot badass skater girl?”

  “How do you know I'm a skater?”

  “I saw you eyeing my board, hot stuff.” Zandor lifts the skateboard, giving me a better view of the orange and black skulls on the back.

  “Can't blame a girl. It's a pretty nice board,” I respond with a shrug. “I'd invite you inside, but my dad is sleeping upstairs and I don't want to wake him. Maybe some other time?” I lie, just in case Skater Boy is actually an axe murderer. He stares at me with those sunshine yellow eyes of his for a second.

  “No pressure but … is that a yes? Or a no?” He looks like he’s bracing for a rejection, but there’s still a smile on his face. “Only because I need to know if I should go home and cry into my pillow … or start picking out an outfit.”

  Wow. Talk about turning the charm on full-tilt …

  “How about next Saturday?” I pick a day at random.

  “Perfect,” he purrs—like, really purrs—sending goose bumps shivering down my arms. “I'll see you Saturday. Hopefully you'll still be up for it.” He winks and then reaches out for a handshake which is kinda weird, but that I humor him with anyway. The second his skin meets mine, my own flesh feels suddenly tight and achy, and a tingle travels down my spine. I can feel a pressure like the air itself is condensing around me. I try to pull my hand away, but his grip suddenly tightens and he’s no longer smiling.

  Then I hear voices.

  Everywhere.

  They’re all around me, like dozens of people are encircling me, whispering things just quiet enough that I can't make out the words.

  “I'm sorry, Serefine, but we need you. You'll get used to it—I promise,” Zandor whispers, a sad smile on his face. Need me? How does he know my name? WTF is he talking about? What was I thinking hanging out by myself alone with a guy I met trespassing on my property? An instant later, I feel a zap of electricity and simultaneously, I feel a cold breath down the back of my neck. I finally manage to jerk my hand out of Zandor’s.

  “What hell was that?!” I yell. “Get the fuck off my property or I'm calling the cops!” I take one step back, lifting up the baseball bat I'm holding. Zandor lifts his arms up in surrender, his right hand still holding the skateboard. He's smiling again, like weird shit did not just happen. Slowly, he starts to back up around the enormous tree, hands still in the air where I can see them.

  “Don't forget . . . the cat needs to eat.” With that, he's out of sight and I can no longer hear his footsteps. I quickly dash around the tree, bat at the ready, keeping my distance from the colossal oak so Zandor—if that really is his name—can't jump out and try to kill me or something.

  But when I reach the other side, the Skater Boy’s gone and in his place, is my grandmother’s cat.

  #

  “The day after I move into my dream home, I meet a guy with a great smile, one who’s smokin' hot and nice, and just my type? I should’ve known it was way too good to be true.” I'm in the kitchen, talking to the cat while trying to find a knife to cut open the bag of kitty food I got from crazy Mrs. DeBellevue.

  “Uhhh, why did he have to smell like bubblegum anyway? It would’ve been so much easier if he’d smelt like musty, old socks instead.” I find the drawer with the knives, digging around for a second until I find one sharp enough to cut through the sack’s thick fabric.

  As soon as I slice open the cloth, a noxious smell hits me. OMG. What the heck is in here? Holding the bag at arm’s length, I flip it over and dump the contents on the butcher-block countertop. Out tumbles a rabbit. A dead freaking rabbit. Gross. Its eyes are stitched closed with thick purple twine, and it’s clear the stomach was once cut open and stuffed with bits of plants or something. It’s now stitched back up with crisscrossing black and red stitches, the edges of leaves and stems sticking out here and there. There is no way in hell I'm feeding the cat this creepy thing.

  “I think maybe you should eat something else,” I choke, grabbing the sack to use as a barrier, so I can pick up the dead bunny and drop it in the trash. As I reach for it, the cat jumps up on the counter, hissing and spitting and
growling. He places himself directly between me and the dead animal, guarding it. I drop my hand and he just stops. Narrowing my eyes, I tentatively reach for it again. The cat’s ears are pressed against his skull, and he scratches me, lightning-fast. As soon as I pull my hand away, the growling and hissing stops.

  “Ow, that hurt you little shit,” I snap, cupping my hand. Blood starts to well out of the wound, way deeper than your usual cat scratch, and starts to drip all over the floor. I run to the sink and rinse it off, leaving a trail of bright-red splatters as I go then grab a dishtowel to staunch the bleeding. I hope I don't need stitches—like the dead rabbit over there. Fucking gross.

  I stand there for several minutes, leaning against the counter and putting pressure on the gash as I try to decide what I should do next. The cat just sits there calmly, his bright golden eyes watching me, taking in my every move.

  “Keep the nasty thing if you want it that much,” I snap. As soon as I do, the cat starts purring. This cannot be happening. Cats do not understand English. It's just coincidence; it has to be. I take a deep breath, trying my best not to freak out. Clearly, something about the South or the heat outside or the drone of cicadas is driving me insane.

  “Meow three times if you can understand me,” I challenge sarcastically.

  The cat just stares at me.

  Hah, now I feel stupid. But … actually kind of relieved, too? Did I really think the cat was going to answer me? Being all alone in this grand old house is just playing tricks on my mind.

  I head upstairs to unpack and organize the rest of my things, blasting Crown the Empire (my current favorite band) as I get to work unpacking the majority of my crap. By the time the sun starts to go down, the only box I haven’t sorted and put away is my cosmetics collection. I pour the contents out on my bed and replace my music with my favorite Japanese anime—Yona of the Dawn—as a background show while I attempt to sort through my makeup. Most of my stash is lipstick, all these fantastical colors with metallic shimmers or glitter or absurd colors that I organize by brand, so I can put them away in these cute coffin-shaped display cases that I have on my vanity. As soon as the opening music starts, as if by magic the cat—who I should probably give a name to, so I can stop referring to him as 'the cat'—jumps on the bed next to me. And I swear, his eyes follow the characters on the screen as if he’s actually watching it.