During her last case, DuLac and El had sacrificed their lives to protect Marie-Claire from the wazimamoto, the African vampire. She kept remembering El and DuLac dead, limp, their bodies twisted on the floor, drained of blood.
She hadn’t seen DuLac since his death. El’s spirit visited occasionally. She often brought women with her. Sister-friends. Ghosts from another age: slaves sold as breeders; quadroons contracted as mistresses to white aristocrats; and prostitutes who played sex games to buy milk and bread for their children.
El was reminding her that the world could be hard on women.
“What else is new?” Marie would say to El after failing to convince another battered woman in the ER to file a police report, run away, or spend the night in a shelter.
“It is what it is,” El would reply.
Marie sighed, tucking a windswept strand of hair behind her ear.
The world was harsh, particularly Louisiana; steeped in conflict like rice in an unsavory stew.
She wondered if America ever regretted purchasing Louisiana from the French. In 1823, did America understand it was buying a landscape designed for fevered dreams: swamps that could swallow you alive; infected mosquitoes, insatiably draining blood; yellow moons heralding disasters; and weeping willows sheltering predators, large and small? Did they imagine hurricanes flooding rivers, streets, and with whipping wind howling, blowing houses down?
Still, there was a beauty to Louisiana, an otherworldliness and preternatural charm.
She was driving straight into its bayou heart.
El’s presence was companionable. Marie felt herself relaxing. She could pretend she was on a road trip. Pretend for a moment she was free of responsibilities: work, motherhood, and miracles.
She turned the radio on, punched the buttons, searching for anything but static. Zydeco. Blues. Folk. Classical.
Nothing. Just static in the backwoods.
Inexplicably, the radio blared Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing.”
Marie laughed again. Her car swerved slightly, then she straightened its course.
She looked at the backseat ghost. “What was I thinking, El? You weren’t a mother figure. More like an R-rated aunt.”
Alive, El had always encouraged Marie to get laid. “I’m too old for all that sweat. But you,” she declared, her nails, outrageously long, her seventy-year-old skin, soft as magnolias, “should never sleep alone. It’s not good for the mood. Or skin.”
Apparently, death hadn’t changed El.
Marie shrugged. “It is what it is, El. I can’t chain a man to my bed.”
The radio whined like a castrated cat.
“Unfair, El.”
The radio snapped quiet, cutting off the bass line.
Sexual healing would’ve been great, but Parks, her ex-lover and the detective on the wazimamoto case, had grown tired of New Orleans.
“Not tired of you,” he’d said with earnestness. “Tired of the murders. The never-ending crime. Come with me,” he’d pleaded. “To Jersey. California. Wherever you want.”
But he’d already known she wouldn’t leave.
New Orleans was the one place where she didn’t have to explain what it meant to be Marie Laveau’s descendant. Loas and saints; drums and chants; African spirituality blended with Christianity—all of it made sense in the Big Easy.
Louisianans understood bloodlines. Women who spoke with ghosts.
Marie focused on the snakelike road. She liked the feel of the car beneath her—the engine rumbling, ever so sexy, feeling its tremors beneath her butt.
Drive. Fast. Leaning into the curves. Just drive.
El smiled. She was enjoying the ride, too.
Then El flicked her red-painted nails as if shooing some unseen fly; her lips thinned, as if seeing, sensing something distasteful.
Shaking her head mournfully, El faded, disappearing like a photo undeveloping, unraveling through time.
Marie refused to be shaken. Who knew what troubles El had on the other side? Death, like life, couldn’t be easy.
Marie floored it and the Mustang responded.
Marie hadn’t seen a truck stop for a hundred miles. Just bleak asphalt with a cracked dividing line. She was hungry. Low on gas. She needed to pee.
But she wasn’t worried; rather, she felt exhilarated.
She kept driving, feeling her soul lift, knowing she was where she needed to be.
Her ancestor, Marie Laveau, was raised, here, in the bayou. Marie felt the spiritual connection, felt glory stirring in her bones.
She veered sharply, driving deliberately off the main road. The car rocked, jolted, and bounced as asphalt became gravel, became dirt, then mud.
Three oaks, their bark scored with insect warrens, blocked her path.
Three—the numeric symbol of magic, intuition, and fertility. Three—the sign of the trinity.
She studied the oaks, their old-growth trunks with gnarled roots delving deep into the soil, and their leaves, unfurling, blocking the blue, but darkening, sky.
Marie clicked off the engine and got out of the Mustang. She was in an alcove of green—sawlike sedge, angular cypress, and weeping willows. Moss and ivy spread like wild lace.
Mist clung to her body. Honeysuckle scented the air.
She closed her eyes, feeling her senses sharpen. She could hear her heartbeat, swamp mice rustling in grass, and a soaring crow’s caw.
She stretched her hands high, feeling the urge to undress and dance. To celebrate unashamed.
Something shifted in the dense growth.
“El?”
She turned right, left, twisting round. Nothing. No one.
She stepped on a felled branch. The snapping sound ricocheted, echoing in the dense alcove.
She kept still.
She heard an unnatural quiet, felt an electric cold descending. Peering past oaks and tangled marsh, beyond rampant ferns and gnarled bark, she saw a darkness, bubbling up from the earth, hovering. A darkness, denser than any night, blacker than any shadow.
She heard a piercing cry. Human or animal? Or neither?
Death’s scent assailed her.
Marie knew Nature encompassed death: rotting plants, predators feasting, and a continuous cycle of decomposition and renewal. Only humans perverted nature with suicide and murder. That’s what she smelled now—an unnatural dying.
The smell was pungent, like an entire hospital ward filled with the dead. Not just any dead, but those brutally dead from festering wounds, gangrene, and bullets boring through flesh, muscles, and sinews.
Her tennis shoes sank in the murky soil, the white canvas turning black.
There. She saw a smoky thread weaving through the brush, then swaying upright, like a snake from a charmer’s basket.
Sent by the dead? By her ancestress Laveau?
The black thread stopped inches from where she stood.
She trembled, sensing the darkness had consciousness. Malevolence? She didn’t know. She only knew nothing had been an accident. There was no escape from fa, her fate.
“Shit.” She slipped, her ankle twisting. Branches, small rocks dug into her palms. She bit her lip, wincing. She wiped her bloodied hands on her pants before limping onward.
She came to a small clearing. But instead of the sugar-bright cottage Hansel and Gretel had stumbled upon, she saw a dilapidated one-room shack. New plywood bolstered old wood; gleaming black tar patched the weathered roof.
Someone had tried to refresh what time had worn down.
The well had a new pail but the chain was rusted orange.
Brush had been hacked away—not much of it, it would have been back-breaking work, but enough for a pitiful patch of vegetables: mold-covered green beans, a shriveled tomato plant, and yellow-spotted peas.
Through dirty windows, she saw a small table with a kerosene lamp, and cut lilies, hanging limp inside a glass, waiting to be watered. The kitchen was empty. There were hand-sewn curtains—gingham. A woman’s touch. Someone had tried
to make a home.
“Hello? Hello?”
Nothing. No cats, dogs, or people. Just a forlorn porch with a broken rocker. And the smell—the death gods announcing their presence.
Parked on the side of the shack was a gleaming blue truck.
She breathed shallowly to prevent herself from gagging.
She called again, “Hello? Hello?”
She touched the door of the shack. It swung wide.
Flinching, she fell against the door frame, bile rising in her throat.
She forced herself to look.
Two bodies. A man, splayed, on the floor; a woman, facedown, on the bed. Blood speckled the walls, floor. Human bodies held approximately six quarts of blood. The woman’s remaining blood had soaked the sheets, the thin cotton mattress, and had dripped off the bed, making a small puddle.
She was a doctor. Heal.
Gritting against the pain in her ankle, she bent, checking pulses. None. The man was still warm; the woman, warmer.
The woman had been the last to die. The blast had lain open her chest, fractured her spine, muscle. In the city, most wounds were from a .45 or .38. These wounds were from a shotgun. Pellets littered the body and the wall behind.
What had these two done to deserve such rage? Or had it been a random theft? But what did they have worth stealing?
The woman was slim, medium height. Her arms disappeared beneath her torso.
Marie stroked the woman’s hair. Then stopped. Extending outward from the woman’s throat was a swatch of pink with satin trim. The knit blanket was damp, stained red.
“Strength,” Marie murmured. She gripped a shoulder, turning the woman over, revealing an infant scattershot through the abdomen. Lead pellets had passed from mother to child, killing the baby instantly. Or at least Marie hoped so. She hoped the baby hadn’t suffocated first, beneath her mother’s body.
Marie dry-heaved, grateful her stomach was empty.
“It is what it is,” El murmured.
“No, it isn’t fair,” Marie responded, fiercely.
If you didn’t look below the neck, the baby appeared asleep. Rich chocolate skin, with black strands covering her head. She couldn’t have been more than three months; her skull was still flexible, the bones hadn’t fused.
Marie turned, sensing a disruption in the air, a chasm in time.
The dead man, newly alive, was an arm’s length in front of her. Ex-military. He wore khaki pants, army-issue boots. He was muscular, fit. A warrior.
His wife and baby were crying, the woman softly, the baby, big gulping cries.
Marie couldn’t see the assailant. Assailants? Half the room was dark, as if a curtain or shroud had been drawn.
“Let me see,” she murmured. “Let me see.”
The young man, his ax in his hand, was planted like a tree, protecting his family. He was talking angrily (his words, soundless) . . . talking, shaking his head. Shouting, enraged, he tensed, crouched, and leapt, his left arm lifting his ax high. Then his forward motion stopped, the ax falling from his hand, crashing down. That must have been the first shot. His body jerked back. A second shot.
Blood drained from two huge wounds. He was nearly dead.
To the left, someone picked up his ax, swung it wide, cutting into the man’s abdomen, cutting deep through stomach, intestines. He fell forward.
But not before Marie had a clear look at his face. He’d been startled, incredulous. Like the youth she’d seen in Charity’s ER. Young men—often gang members—who never expected to die or thought they couldn’t be hurt.
In seconds, like a silent movie reel, a veteran soldier lay murdered. Blood flowed like water.
Marie blinked tears.
If she shifted her weight, turned her head ever so slightly, she’d see the mother and child die. She refused. As it was, she knew she’d always be haunted by their image, a bloodied Madonna and child.
She kept her eyes fixed on the curtain.
Why couldn’t she see the murderers? The murderer?
For each hour dead, body temperature dropped eight-tenths of a percent. Bayou heat might have slowed the progress. Rigor mortis usually occurred within the first half hour to three hours. All the bodies were still pliable.
Marie shuddered. The murders had occurred as she was driving, being guided, here.
Instinct told her that the woman had been kept alive. Why? Had they interrogated her? Harmed her in some other way?
Curious, she looked again at mother and child.
The woman’s floral dress was hitched high. The backs of her knees were locked.
She saw a latex-gloved hand raising the woman’s floral dress, ripping her cotton panties.
Marie turned, snapping, shutting her eyes tight. She wouldn’t let herself think of it. She wouldn’t turn and stare into the vision.
Air still shimmered.
The murderer, murderers had to have known—kill the mother, kill the child.
“No more,” Marie screamed, raising her hands to block the images, her thoughts. “No more, please.”
The air calmed, stabilized. The shielding curtain dissolved; the vision disappeared.
Flies and mosquitoes feasted on blood.
Outside, on the porch, it was easier to breathe. But Marie knew death’s smell was seeping into her clothes, her pores.
Gripping the porch rail, Marie’s palms began bleeding again. She gripped harder, using the pain to focus, heighten her senses.
She heard creatures stirring—alligators, swamp turtles, and nesting herons. She heard a manufactured silence, an intention not to breathe, move, or speak.
She sensed no imminent threat. For now, she knew they wouldn’t return.
Wonderingly, she shook her head.
How did she know that, for now, she was safe? How did she know they were still hiding in the bayou? Watching her.
She wiped sweat from her brow.
Night was falling fast. Her head ached from the rise in barometric pressure. A storm was coming. “Rain washes away evidence,” Parks would say, “destroys footprints, tire marks.”
There were clues she was missing. Add it up. What did it mean? Poor, backwater people with new wealth? A new truck, a new pail, fresh wood, and tar to patch a falling-down house?
She couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something else, here, outside, more horrific than the murdered inside. Something inhuman.
She looked skyward. The crescent moon was startlingly white. Stars blinked. No warnings there. She lowered her line of sight—the treetops stretched high, creating vibrant, moonlit silhouettes. Lower, she saw branches twisting in the breeze, and pockmarked trunks. Still lower, she saw the tangled undergrowth, and plants suffocating, straining for air.
Something else was here.
She stepped off the porch, crossed the dirt yard, and stared hard at the riotous growth beyond the shack’s clearing.
An owl dove then rose skyward, a mouse clutched in its claws.
There. Not moving. Twisting in and among the brush, she saw the shadow, squiggly, thin as a garden snake.
The shadow, like veins in a body, elongated, stretching like black taffy, then thickening into a rope, doubling in size, until it looked like a stream, a river, then a bleeding black lake covering the land. It was a slick, viscous pool . . . a gleaming darkness, spreading toward the porch, the house, and Marie.
Appalled, she stumbled backward.
In seconds, darkness covered the entire yard, swallowing the landscape’s colors—the brown and green.
Marie stooped, extending her bruised hands. Her hands hovered, inches from the ground, slightly trembling in the moist air.
Like a spring snapping back, the darkness coalesced, shrank itself thin, and curled, like a ribbon, about her hand.
The darkness split into tentacles, sliding high and higher, wrapping about her arm. Her shoulders. Her chest.
The smell was toxic. Organic mixed with inorganic. Nature tainted with the unnatural.
&nb
sp; Rot was natural decomposition; this darkness was purposeful destruction.
She felt rather than saw images: darkness bleeding into the earth’s warrens, seeping downward, then gurgling upward and bursting into flames. Swamplands were burning.
The darkness was rising, swirling, covering her throat; soon, her mouth.
Birds fell from the sky, vanishing, drowning in the slick pool.
She could run. But to what end?
“I am Marie.”
Her skin was irritated, burning.
“Descendant of a Voodoo Queen raised on this land. This, too, is home.” The words came unbidden; but saying them felt right.
The darkness had weight. It inched across her lips, seeping into her mouth. She gagged, tasting bitterness, feeling herself drowning, a heaviness suffocating, filling her lungs.
“Marie Laveau.” She knew her name had power; and inside her head, she chanted: “Marie Laveau. I am Marie Laveau.”
The darkness lifted, dispersed as if it had never been.
A mirage? A dream?
The stars and moon glowed bright again. Animals stirred. The water thrush sang, trilling more richly than a nightingale.
Had the murderers seen what she’d seen? She held her breath, listening again for movement.
She was the only person alive for miles.
Her ankle and hands ached. She looked back at the bleak house, hoping the newly dead didn’t rise as ghosts. She wasn’t sure she could carry the weight of the young family haunting her. But as soon as she thought it, Marie knew she lied.
“It is what it is.”
She was who she was—part of the Laveau bloodline extending across centuries, across nations, to the mambos of Haiti, the shamans of Bahia, and the spiritualists of West Africa.
Visions, dreams, ghosts came to her because she could bear it, had learned to bear it without going mad. At least, not yet.
“El? You there?”
No answer. Only the shrill of cicadas. “Should I head north, back to the city? Or south?”
Again, no answer. But Marie already knew the answer. South—that’s where the loas, the spirit-gods, wanted her to be.
The Legend of Marie Laveau Mystery Trilogy Page 42