by Nancy Morse
Sabine took her hand and drew her forward.
Her vision hazed, Pru handed the book to Christophe and stepped into the circle.
She moved slowly at first, as if caught in a dream, scarcely knowing what she was doing. Watching Sabine, she emulated her movements to the howls and moans of the dancers. Her legs felt rubbery and she thought she would collapse. Somehow, she remained upright as the vibrations of the tom-toms sifted through her body, growing stronger and steadier and more frenetic. Something was happening to her. It was no longer possible to tell if the wails and moans, the sound of shredding garments, and the erratic breathing came from those around her or from herself. Somewhere in the frenzied mist that enveloped her she thought she heard Sabine laughing and the voodoo queen’s voice close to her ear chanting in words she did not recognize, words of an ancient language.
Pru’s body quivered and trembled. Lifting the snake from her shoulders, she held it aloft as she whirled around and around, lending her voice to the cries of the others. “Ye! Oh! Oh!”
The same man who had appeared with the bottles of rum jumped into the circle. In his hand he held a rooster by its feet, its wings flapping madly in distress. To the cries and screams of the crowd he bit into rooster’s neck, severing its head from its body. With blood gushing from his mouth and over his chest, he flung the dead fowl to the ground.
He approached Pru where she danced, lifted the Vodu from her and returned it to its reed cage. Then he sprang at her, his loincloth whipping up in the breeze to reveal a fully erect phallus. Winding an arm about her waist, he gyrated against her to cheers of “Ye! Ye!” from the crowd. People were falling to the ground all around her, men atop women, writhing in sexual frenzy to the savage rhythm of the drums.
Pru’s head fell back, and her arms dropped to her sides. She could have snapped his spine like a twig and sank her fangs into his jugular, but a dark ecstasy had overtaken her. She felt energized and yet exhausted, excited and yet repelled. “The rum…the rum…” She was only dimly aware of breathing the words. “Wh—what have y—you done to me?”
His blood-stained face split into a grin, and in a sing-song way he chanted, “Rum flavored with jimson weed and rubbed against a black cat with one white foot.” The high-pitched sound of his laugher echoed over the tom-toms and out across the still waters of the bayou.
Christophe stood on the perimeter of the circle, watching the spectacle with a sneer curling his upper lip. When the voodoo queen approached, his face went expressionless, betraying none of his revulsion. Nodding toward Pru who danced with wild abandon, he said slyly, “Mon Dieu. Look at her. She is magnifique. She dances better than all of them.”
The firelight caught in the beads of perspiration dotting Sabine’s ebony skin. “I have taught her well.”
“Too well perhaps.
“It is me they come to see. I hold the power.”
“For now.”
“What is that you say?”
“She can have her pick of any man. White, Negro, mixed blood, rich, poor. See how they all lust after her. How long will it be before they throw you over for her?” Whether it was true or not, he need only plant the seed of doubt. “Why take the chance that she will be the one they come to see?” he said, pressing the point. “That she will be the new voodooienne who holds the power?”
He saw her features harden as jealousy wrapped its fingers around her black heart, and used it as his opportunity to strike. “I am speaking now not to Sabine Sejour, but to the one who holds her captive.” He knew his words struck their mark when malicious eyes turned on him, eyes that did not belong to Sabine Sejour. “The voodoo queen is not worthy of you,” he said urgently. “But that one is. She is young and beautiful.”
Lienore screamed. Pulling the tignon from her head, she tore at her hair, not the flaming red tresses that had once spilled down her back but the coarse black locks of the voodoo queen. “Young and beautiful,” she cried. “As I once was.”
Knowing it was no longer Sabine to whom he was speaking, Christophe bent his head close to hers and whispered, “Think what you can do in such a body.”
She hated him because he was a man, but more so because he was right. All the gris-gris and voodoo spells and dancing in the world would not give her the power that the blood-drinker could give her. Her eyes burned with unearthly fire when they turned toward Pru. Oh, the mischief she could make inhabiting that body. “Yes, yes,” she hissed. “I will do it.”
She began to chant in a high, toneless wail, calling upon the ancient goddess for the power to slip out of this mortal body as easily as she had slipped into it. The harsh melody rose to a shriek. There came a shuddering through the branches of the trees, and a great womanly form appeared in the night sky, its arms open wide.
Lienore’s face twisted, and her large black eyes turned fiery red before going opaque. Her body contorted. From her lips spewed words about the Mother-right and the Goddess and things no living man could comprehend. Eyes bulging, she gave out with a shrill cry. “Goddess, Mother!” Between the moan of the wind and the roar of the night, she heard an ancient voice. Come to me. Leave the spent body behind. Come. With a final shriek, she collapsed on the ground.
Christophe recoiled at the foul-smelling mist that wafted from the prostrate body and hovered over it for a moment before rising into the air. It swirled on invisible currents this way and that as if searching for something. Then, gathering itself into a ball of vapor, it shot off in the direction of the dancers.
Unaware of the danger hurling her way, wrapped tightly in the arms of the nearly-naked voodoo dancer, Pru opened her eyes and saw not the blood-stained grin of a man who had bitten the head off a rooster but the face of the pirate she had loved and lost. His lips were at her neck. His hand was at her breast. His erection bit into her She wound her arms around him, her heart crying, Stede. Stede.
From somewhere overhead she heard a stirring and then a cold wind descended from on high. Closer it came, chilling her naturally cool flesh. She shivered at the feel of icy fingers stroking her cheek. The drums, the frenzy, the hands of the dancer, the threatening touch of evil—she felt high above it all, alone and far removed.
Words came to her mind as clearly as if spoken. Open for me. Let me in. Open…Open.
She felt herself falling. Everything grew murky. Something tugged at her arms and banged relentlessly on her chest. She had only to open herself to it and the torment would stop. The voice grew stronger…angrier…more demanding.
Open!
Open!
Pru’s will was fast slipping.
The faceless menace gave a triumphant cry just as it was about to infiltrate its newest host.
Suddenly, a savage, snarling creature sprang into the circle.
People screamed in terror and ran about wildly to escape the snapping jaws of a wolf.
With fangs bared, it leapt into the air and came at Pru and the male dancer, knocking them to the ground with its giant paws.
The vaporous ball that had swarmed over Pru only moments ago spun off in wild confusion.
The wolf pounced on the dancer, ripping the flesh from his throat with its razor-sharp fangs. Holding the lifeless body in its mouth, it gave it a vicious shake and flung it into the air. It landed with a thud on the ground at the feet of the horrified dancers.
Women screamed. Men begged for their lives. The wolf snarled viciously, sending them stumbling into the alligator-infested swamp.
When the circle was cleared of voodoo dancers, the wolf turned its vicious eyes toward Pru who lay unconscious on the ground. As it loped toward her, its legs lengthened, the gray fur bristling over its body disappeared, the fangs receded, and its eyes of gold turned to green. Wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his sleeve, he knelt beside her, brushed the hair from her face, stroked her cheek, and lifted her into his arms.
A hunter’s moon broke through the twisted branches of the cypress trees, casting the bayou into lurid light. As he carrie
d her away from the place of voodoo worship, he walked right past the lanky Creole man who crouched on the ground, face buried in his hands and shoulders wracked with sobs, beside the body of the dead voodoo queen.
Snagged in the moss hanging from a cypress limb, a ball of vapor flashed angrily and disappeared with a hollow scream into the night.
Chapter 27
James was seated on the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, reading the newspaper, when the French doors opened and Pru entered the parlor. Her feet barely skimmed the Oriental carpet spread over the floorboards as she crossed the room. Pulling an armchair up before the fire, she sat down and stared morosely into the flames.
Laying the newspaper aside, he asked, “Are you all right, Pruddy?”
Drawn from her tortured silence, she answered, “Yes, Papa.”
He glanced at the clock on the mantle. “I wonder what’s keeping Babette.”
Pru heaved a belabored sigh. “You might as well know, Papa. I let Babette go.”
“But why? Good servants are hard to come by.”
“I caught her stealing.” It was a lie, of course. She dared not tell him that self-preservation had forced her to follow Babette home and dispose of her with a quick and painless snap of the neck. She felt remorse for what she’d done and had reproached herself severely. Nevertheless, it had been too risky to let her live, for there was no telling who else besides Delphine she had told of her discovery.
“Ah, well,” James said with a sigh, “in that case you did the right thing.” He picked up the newspaper. “I was reading the most lurid story when you came in. The body of one of the slaves from the Fronteneau plantation was found several nights ago in Bayou St. John with his neck torn to pieces. Witnesses claim it was done by a wolf. I did not know there were wolves in the bayou.”
“It was probably a feral dog,” Pru replied, suppressing the truth. “From what I have heard of those voodoo ceremonies in the bayou, the people are often intoxicated. I’m surprised they didn’t claim to see flying monkeys.”
Bits and pieces from that night flashed back to her like lightning in a storm-filled sky, illuminating the darkness for terrible moments of clarity.
Through the cobwebs shrouding her memory she remembered the blood-stained smile of the dancer and his voice saying something about rum flavored with jimson weed. The rum was no doubt the cause of her head aching all the next day, and Sabine taught her that the leaves of the tall herb plant, when brewed into tea, could cause hallucinations, so the jimson weed explained why she had vague notions of seeing Stede’s image.
Her body trembled as memories from that night converged on her—of Sabine urging her to dance, the weight of the serpent around her shoulders, the wild abandon of the dance, the flames of the fire leaping high into the night sky, the struggling, fluttering form of the black rooster, the shameful liberties taken by the half-naked slave, the strange whirring overhead, and a fierce voice demanding that she open…open.
And then it was as if the world had caught fire. People were running and screaming. She must have fainted, for the next thing she knew, she was lying in her own bed with the coverlet drawn to her chin, and Nicholas was standing over her. No, it wasn’t a feral dog or a flying monkey that terrified the dancers and tore the throat out of that slave. The witness accounts were accurate; it was a wolf. Just not any kind of wolf they could ever imagine.
“Rougarou.”
She turned her face from the flames and looked at her papa questioningly.
“It’s a legend the slaves tell about a creature that lives in the swamp,” he said. “Some say it’s a man. Some say it’s a wolf. Some say it’s both.”
We have more dangerous things than that to worry about, Pru thought, recalling what Christophe told her about Delphine. “Papa,” she said suddenly, “I think we should leave this place.”
He tilted the newspaper and studied her from over its top. “You haven’t been yourself for days. Have you had another row with Nicholas?”
She wanted to run to him and put her head in his lap the way she used to do when she was a little girl and something had frightened her. He would stroke her hair and tell her that everything would be all right. But everything was not all right.
“Nicholas has nothing to do with it,” she said. Although, in reality, Nicholas had everything to do with it. If it weren’t for him, she wouldn’t be this half-dead thing in search of mortal love, nor would she have gone to Sabine Sejour seeking a love potion and wound up dancing to voodoo drums in the bayou. “There’s too much darkness here. I want to go somewhere gay and exciting.”
“Nonsense,” he scoffed. “I dare say in the coming years the Americans will add their own unique brand of gaiety to the city. Wasn’t it you who said you did not want to leave this city?”
“I’ve changed my mind,” she said. Now that there was no future with Stede Bonham, and with the danger of a hunter close at hand, what was the point in staying? “And I seem to recall that not so long ago you said that our days in New Orleans might be nearing an end.”
“I’m quite content where we are,” he said. “I rather like the masquerades and fancy-dress balls. Besides, where would we go?”
“I had thought to return to Paris.”
“Where you had to go to great lengths to make your kills unnoticed,” he reminded her. “Here in New Orleans there is so much crime and fever I doubt anyone notices a drained body here and there.”
She expelled a resolute huff. “It was just a thought.”
“Our main concern at the moment is finding a replacement for Babette. Her red beans and rice cannot be equaled, and I cannot imagine having to brew my own tea.”
“You won’t have to, Papa. I’ll do it for you.”
After a long moment, he said, “I fear something is causing you much distress. Is it about the young man? The mortal? I had not the heart to tell you that I saw no good coming of your friendship with him.”
Yes, she wanted to cry. Yes, it was about Stede, and a misguided attempt to procure his love and how it had gone terribly wrong. It was about secret lessons with the voodoo queen. It was about love potions and drug-infused rum. It was about servants discovering decanters of chicken blood. It was about the ever-present threat of a hawthorn stake through the heart, or a fire, or any number of ways to destroy their kind. It was about the tainted love of a vampire whose touch, despite everything, she craved as strongly as she craved the taste of blood.
Affecting an uncaring tone, she said, “That friendship has ended.” She rose and went to the window to pull the drapes tighter, shutting out the light on this pale afternoon. “There, that’s better.” On her way to the door, she announced, “I’m going out for a while. I need to see Nicholas about something.”
He raised a speculative eyebrow. “Are you feeling more cordial toward him, Pruddy?”
“Of course not,” she said, dashing the hopeful optimism she heard in his voice.
***
Marie answered the knock on the door and stepped aside as Pru swept in, demanding “Is she here?”
“She?” the girl asked, perplexed by the urgency of the question.
“Delphine. Has she returned from visiting her family upriver?”
“Oh, oui. She returned this morning.”
Uncertain of what she would say…or do…to Delphine, Pru said curtly, “Tell her I wish to see her.”
“I cannot.”
“Marie, I’m in no mood—” she began.
“She is not here,” the girl spoke up. “She packed her bag and left.”
Pru looked at the girl who had stolen Stede’s heart. She wore a winter dress of dark blue wool, the high neck adorned with a silver brooch. Her cheeks bore a pale blush, giving her a luminous look, almost like that of marble. Her hair was parted in the middle and hung down her back in long ebony waves. Her eyes were large and liquid and brimming with innocence despite everything she’d experienced in her young life. It was easy to see how a man could fall hopelessl
y in love with her even without the aid of a potion.
Pru tried hard to hate her, but found that she could not. A peculiar sensation passed through her, and she realized that, despite everything, she felt sorry for her. As much as it pained her to know that Stede’s heart belonged to this young quadroon, she had to admit to herself that it was all for the best. After all, a man who spent most of his time at sea or inebriated would not be an easy man to love.
“Do you know where she went?” Pru asked.
“She said something about seeking employment elsewhere.”
It was then Pru noticed the lace draped over Marie’s arm and the needle and thread in her hand, and looked past her to the windows decorated with panels of lace.
“I want to make everything pretty for him,” Marie said shyly.
“Do you expect him any time soon?” Even now, knowing that he was lost to her, she could not help but cling to the vague thought that things might have been different if only she had not interfered.
“I do not know when he will return,” Marie replied, adding with a crestfallen look, Or even if he will.”
“He will return,” Pru offered reluctantly. “He loves you too much to stay away.” And you remind him of his Evangeline, she thought with regret.
The wind carried the ringing of the cathedral bells over the treetops. Marie lifted her head and listened. “Angelus,” she murmured. “You must pardon me. It is time for my prayers.”
“Yes, I’m sure you have much to pray for.”
“Will you join me?”
Her face devoid of expression, Pru replied, “I think not.” She lifted the soft mass of her skirts and turned toward the door. Prayers, she huffed to herself, were merely a repetition of words, some spoken aloud, some whispered inwardly, whose sole purpose was to go unanswered.
Marie’s touch at her arm stopped her.
“When I was a little girl, my maman told me that the love we seek is right before us. We have only to open our eyes to see it.”