Marie felt both powerful and vulnerable. More woman than she’d ever felt.
“Not all the Maries could carry the load. Some corrupted by the New World; some controlled by base men. Some had their scores to settle. It was I who killed my daughter’s father. How could she ever forgive me?
“You are my child, too. Believe. Learn and believe.”
“I will.”
Marie felt a great peace, then felt Marie leaving. “Don’t go. Save Reneaux, please.”
“It’s in your hands, Marie. In your hands.”
Reneaux’s body shook, reflexes and connections misfiring. A spot of blood drained from his mouth.
The Guédé began drumming, their hands beating upon their thighs.
It’s in her hands. What did that mean?
She pressed her cheek to Reneaux’s. “I could’ve loved you.”
That wasn’t true. She did love him. Burgeoning, not fully grown; yet love.
She imagined Reneaux whole. Upright, faithful, and strong.
His cross earring rested on the side of his neck. Reneaux believed in Christianity, in voodoo. He believed in her.
She feathered his face with kisses. Her lips pressed against his black skin, rich like the night sky, reminiscent of African warriors.
Everyone was mixed blood. He was her good ole southern boy, and she loved him . . . loved how he teased her out of her ill humors . . . how he cared about goodness, justice.
She touched his head, his neck, his chest, arms, and thighs. She touched his wound, feeling his warm blood between her fingers. His breath was getting shallower.
She laid her hands atop his hands, pressuring his abdomen . . . holding what life remained, in. She focused on loving him . . . loving her mother . . . the newborn, Marie . . . a circle of love, powerful and strong. Her hands clutched his—the blood sluggish and bubbling. “Heal,” she whispered, feeling pain, heat in her hands. Her mind imagined science readily available . . . sutures, antiseptic, scalpels, bandages, and stapling gun. Her mind imagined miracles.
“Heal.”
Blood slowed, then stopped. Reversing its course, the bullet moved backward from the spine, through muscles, sinews, and surface skin. Reneaux’s arms relaxed, his hands fell to his sides. He opened his eyes.
“Marie.”
“You’re not out of the woods yet.”
She stared at her hands, as if she was one of those faith healers on late-night TV. The Guédé were gone. The Sleeping Beauties ever calm.
Reneaux gripped her hand. “I love you.”
“Rest, if you can. I’ve got to find a phone. Get help.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
“Marie.” She kissed his brow, touched her cheek to his. “I’ll get help.”
“No help coming,” said a voice. “Out here, everybody is on her own.”
A panel in the wall had opened, and a woman in a white blouse and rainbow skirt stood framed, a candle in her hand. There were warrens behind the walls; there was a rush of stale air as the woman walked forward. Marie clasped her hand over her mouth. The closer she got, the more the woman appeared to be Marie’s mother come to life, resurrected from the dead.
The woman kneeled, examining Reneaux’s wound. The dulling red, the caked blood, the torn flesh regaining color. “You’re a healer,” she said, awed. “Not a charlatan like me.”
“You’re Marie-Claire’s mother?”
“Your aunt, too. Sister to your Maman.”
“I don’t believe you.” But she did. Allez hadn’t lied; she could see the same bone, hair, and coloring imprint—the brown skin, the eyes set wide, dark hair. More interesting than beautiful.
“My face mirrors yours. Mirrored your Maman’s, too.”
“Then help us,” begged Reneaux.
“Non. The Laveau family split long ago. Some kept the name; others changed to DeLaCroix. Laveau’s daughter was alive when jazz was being born, when folks feared voodoo more than they do now. Marie’s daughter thought it humorous. Why not reinforce devil worshiping? Walking with zombies? Christianity, like the cross, turned upside down? What better revenge on her mother? Marie Laveau, so self-righteous. The daughter incarcerated her mother, then promoted herself as her mother reborn.”
“How cruel.”
“No less cruel than Laveau killing her daughter’s father.”
“John deserved to die.”
Madame DeLaCroix shrugged. “So the story says. What does it matter? All daughters meant to trouble their mothers. If your Maman had lived, you would’ve troubled her, too.”
“Not true.”
“Certain?”
Marie said nothing.
“You might’ve despised her weakness. Didn’t you grow sick of hiding?”
“Don’t listen to her, Marie.”
“My mother was good.”
“Bah. Your Maman didn’t believe voodoo should be a business. Your Maman was a fool.”
“Don’t say that.”
“’Tis true. She was my sister. I knew her well enough. Children together, she’d cry over every little thing. A fly caught in a spider’s web. A flower trampled. Some boy tease her and off she run. Hide in a corner, face to the wall.”
“Stop it.”
“She didn’t have the strength to be a Laveau. Or a DeLaCroix. Levant, so mundane, barely a pseudonym at all. Do I look my age, girl?”
Marie was unnerved by the change in subject.
“Non. Much to be said for roots, herbs. Even creating the undead, nothing but knowing a recipe. But I wasn’t born with a caul. Hasn’t been a descendant for over sixty years that had the gift. You did. That’s why your mother ran.”
“I’m glad she ran.”
“Liar. The family needed a child touched with the divine. Think who you could’ve been.”
“You’re not my blood.”
“All things alive. Snakes are stirring in our blood. You healed him, non?” Madame let her fingers brush Reneaux’s chest. “You’re a true descendant.”
Madame rose, her fists balled, nails digging into her flesh.
“Marie, we’ve got to get out of here.” Reneaux struggled upward; Marie helped him rise, her arm about his waist.
Madame drew close, her voice softly venomous. “I bet you did more mothering than your Maman ever did.”
Marie was a child again, her mother home from house cleaning, physically and spiritually exhausted. She’d rub her feet, brush her hair, fix a cup of tea and rice. Her mother never said: “Go out and play”; “How was school?”
Buried deep was her guilt, her wishing for another mother. Her mother—always so intent on hiding, hadn’t even succeeded in that. Yet she’d done her best. Marie was only now beginning to understand that.
“How do you think black people survive in this world?” said Madame, rising, towering over Marie and Reneaux. “By being strong. Crafty and courageous. No evil we do compares to what was done to us.”
“Is that why you’re with Allez?” asked Reneaux. “To intimidate? Do more evil?”
“Ah, the policeman. What has your goodness done? Kept your brother alive?”
“What has your evil done?” hissed Marie. “Kept your daughter alive?”
Madame shrilled, “I could turn you into a snake. Make your blood thin. Hex you for a thousand years. Send your soul to the Devil.”
Marie stood and faced her aunt. She could see traces of her mother, herself, Marie-Claire. Without a doubt, Marie-Claire’s daughter was in danger. Marie looked at her hands. Looked at Reneaux, worry creasing his face. Looked at the Sleeping Beauties harmed by her family. Her mother had done the best she could. Loved her as best she knew how. She searched her heart. Allez was right. The DeLaCroixs were her people. She saw the sweat on her aunt’s brow. How her nails damaged her hands. And she knew that, in her own way, her aunt was weak, too.
“I can choose. Isn’t that the point? Laveau’s descendents chose to do good or evil, to be charlatans or healers.” This was the revelation.
She stepped closer to her aunt. “You’re a witch. Your threats are only good for the powerless, the weak. I won’t be intimidated. Je suis Marie. My gifts are real.”
“You can’t frighten me.” But Marie knew she did.
“If you had any real power,” said Reneaux, “you wouldn’t be with Allez.”
“I’ve done well with Allez’s father. Built an empire. Made a fortune.”
“Too bad Allez thinks to replace you with me.”
“Who are you to talk?” Madame demanded. “You’re nothing. Just as my sister was nothing.”
“You murdered her,” said Reneaux, solving a piece of the puzzle.
“You did, didn’t you?” murmured Marie, startled by the depth of evil.
“Jealousy,” said Reneaux. “Look at her face, Marie.”
For the first time in her life, Marie wished she weren’t a doctor. Wished she could murder as easily as any criminal.
“Why?”
“She had you.”
“She was your family. Your sister. Your blood.”
“I’m a woman of unnatural feelings,” Madame answered bluntly.
“Your daughter? You made her undead.”
There was a flicker of pain; Madame’s nails dug into Marie’s arm. “That was Allez.”
“But you knew about it. You encouraged the rape—”
“It wasn’t rape. Marie-Claire loved him.”
“Seduction of a minor is rape by law,” said Reneaux.
“You knew Allez would tire of her, drug her . . .”
Then her eyes, face hardened like Medusa. “I am a woman of unnatural feelings,” she repeated. “A Voodoo Queen.”
Where her mother was soft, Madame was hard, where her mother was weak, Madame was strong. What would it have been like to have had her aunt as her mother? They would’ve survived Chicago—no poverty or embarrassment. No loneliness or being outcast. Her mother had been ineffectual in all but her goodness.
As if she could read her thoughts, Madame said quietly, matter-of-factly, “If you’d been my daughter—we would’ve ruled the world.”
Marie winced. But she understood. Goodness was the essential quality. Like honeysuckle, it was ephemeral, beautiful—but fortifying. Her mother had chosen to live her life as a sleepwalking beauty, a kind of undead, to protect her daughter. She’d done it out of love.
Marie studied her aunt. Hardness made her less human.
Her mother was imperfect. Vulnerable. Just like Reneaux. Just as she was.
“I am Marie. My mother’s daughter. The true line of Voodoo Queens.”
Her aunt twisted with rage, a skull luminous beneath her skin; she’d die, worms eating her flesh. History . . . time forgetting her.
“Why not me?” screeched her aunt. “Why not me and my daughter?”
Marie felt hard, unforgiving pity.
“My, my a family reunion.” Allez sauntered into the room. “Not dead yet?”
Madame plucked at threads in her skirt. A guard trained his gun on Marie. Reneaux stood tall like the brave cop he was.
“A miracle.” Allez walked a circle about Reneaux. “You’ve been resurrected, I see. Amazing.” His fingers touched where the bullet had entered, where blood still soaked Reneaux’s shirt. “The divine is real. If it helped you, it should help me.”
“Turn yourself in, Allez,” said Reneaux.
“Amazing. I never would’ve believed—Better than your aunt’s mumbo jumbo, half-hearted spells. Marie, you are a true descendant.”
“Go to hell.”
Allez cackled with glee. “Don’t you understand? With your powers, my influence, we’ll prove to the world voodoo is real. Authentic power.”
“I won’t help you.”
Allez turned to Madame. “So much more than your paltry powers. A miracle. Are things ready for the ceremony? Tonight will be exceptional. Let’s get our faith healer downstairs.”
“Allez,” said Madame. “You can’t depend upon her. She’ll betray you.”
“And you haven’t? Never has a loa touched you. Never have you answered my prayers for the divine.”
The guard pulled Marie toward the door. Reneaux knocked the gun out of his hand. The man shoved Reneaux, sending him tumbling to the floor.
Allez grabbed Marie.
“I don’t belong to you,” she screamed.
“You will.” Allez squeezed her jaw in his hand. “You’ll do what I say to keep Marie-Clarie’s baby safe.”
“My grandchild? What has she to do with this?”
Marie looked at Allez, suddenly comprehending. “Didn’t Allez tell you? Your granddaughter was born with a caul.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“Our blood is alive, not his. Do something.”
“Shut up,” said Allez.
“You didn’t tell me,” railed Madame.
“You’re better than him.”
“He’s a criminal,” said Reneaux.
“Take her,” shouted Allez.
“You won’t make me help you,” screamed Marie. The guard lunged for her again. Reneaux’s fist cracked the man’s jaw.
Allez took a gun from his pocket. “Let me show you how I can make you. No second miracle allowed.” Gunpowder exploded. Reneaux’s chest spurted blood.
Reneaux looked disbelievingly at the wound. Another shot. His head snapped up and back. Blood drained, down the rim between his eyes.
“You didn’t tell me,” Madame moaned.
The world washed red. Marie fainted.
She woke—lying on a bed in a row of beds filled with Sleeping Beauties, dressed in shifts, covered with white sheets. At first, she thought she was dead, undead. But when she whimpered, sound tickled out of her mouth.
“Awake?”
Allez, legs crossed, was sitting relaxed in a chair, a perfect picture of western sophistication. A double-breasted suit. Cuff links; a gold and diamond ring on his finger.
“Why?”
“Because I could. Because all my life I’ve been trying to prove miracles.”
Reneaux was lying on the floor, a sheet casually tossed over him. Blood stained the floor, the top and middle of the sheet.
Marie swallowed bile, wanting to understand more than she wanted to forget.
“And the girls? These young women?”
“A hobby. Prostitution has always been profitable.”
“Why not let them have their babies?”
“Like kittens. Too many. Who needs another black single mother?”
She wanted to spit, rail at him. But she’d one more question.
“Why dead, undead?”
“It was the spell closest to a miracle. Or should I say, closest to the appearance of a miracle? When your aunt explained it, I knew others would be awestruck. Power—controlling someone’s life is addictive.” He leaned forward, his finger drawing a spiral on Marie’s arm.
“Besides,” he said offhandedly, “you’d be surprised how exciting passivity can be. Knowing you can do anything you want without objection. Knowing there’s a mind alive, inside the body, heightens the ecstasy.”
Marie attacked him, flailing like a witch, her nails drawing blood, tearing at his shirt. Her suddenness had caught him off guard. But it took only seconds before his arms were bending hers behind her back, before the weight of him was pushing her down onto the bed.
He was breathing hard. Pinioning her arms, flattening his weight on her until she couldn’t move.
He was aroused; her body went limp, still. She didn’t know whether he’d attempt rape. Straddling her, his lids half-closed, Allez kissed her throat, the hollow between her breasts.
“Did you enjoy Jacques?”
She didn’t move.
“From the moment your plane landed in New Orleans, I knew everything about you.”
“You killed him.”
His hands roamed, delving beneath her waistband, touching the hairs of her crotch.
“Coincidence. Jacques knew Marie-Claire. They’d be
en schoolmates. He wanted her to leave me. Oh, he didn’t know it was me. Just knew, Marie-Claire was under the influence of a bad man.” His breathing labored, he continued groping, pinching her breasts and buttocks. His mouth and tongue left half-moon marks on her throat. “An interesting irony, don’t you think? Sleeping with your cousin’s friend. Heh, Chérie?”
She sank her teeth into his shoulder. Allez hit her; she saw a thousand stars.
Life be a celebration. Being a woman be just fine.
—Membe, Marie’s African ancestor
he was outside, on a pallet, tied down, her mouth still tasting of blood. Stars and moon were overhead. Kind Dog was licking her face. “How’d you get here?”
She touched her face to his, feeling his cool nose, smelling his damp fur. He looked terrible, covered in burrs and mud; she wondered if his leg would need to be reset.
A voodoo ceremony was in progress. The altar was on her right. On her left was Madame DeLaCroix, sitting stoically as if she were waiting for tea to be served—as if ceremonies to sacrifice young girls were as natural as breathing.
Allez was wearing white pants and a white jacket over his bare chest. He looked like an island pimp. He lit bowls of rum, the flames rising like magic. Sighs from the crowd; the men discarded their jackets and shoes. Some tore off their shirts, their flesh rolling like waves over their belts. Others hooted and hollered like monstrous schoolboys. Servants kept refilling cups of rum. With each beat of the drum, inhibitions faded. With each beat, the men became more primitive.
Severs was on the far right, the light-bright man observing for the least resistance. But none of the bearded or gray-haired men had the maturity to stop obscenity.
Good men like Reneaux and Jacques died. These men were pillagers, rapists.
On the porch, young women dressed in their ballroom finery were herded like so many cattle, eyes glittering—some with fear, others with excitement; some seduced by champagne, the temptation of spectacle; still others looking for an escape, wanting to go home from a party gone bad, from a party where real men held real guns.
Marie catalogued her injuries: bruises on her face, a cut lip, sore ribs. Nothing life-threatening. The hardiest pain was in her heart, but she couldn’t think about Reneaux now. She had to save herself, the young women, and Kind Dog. Dog, who licked her face, who’d walked miles through a swamp to save her.
The Legend of Marie Laveau Mystery Trilogy Page 39