That Voodoo You Do: That Old Black Magic, Book 1

by Jodi Redford

  Sweet Jesus, they were all doomed.

  Logan suddenly lifted his head and cocked it to the side. “Does anyone else hear that?”

  All conversation ceased as they listened for whatever had captured Logan’s interest. Jemma strained to detect anything beyond the pair of annoying mosquitoes buzzing near her face. Finally she heard it. The unmistakable gunning of a—

  “Motherfucker.” Logan shot to his feet.

  They all pivoted when the sound grew louder. Jemma didn’t know whether to be terrified or bemused by the weird spectacle racing toward them. Logan, however, had no problem determining the proper emotion for the occasion. Blistering fury. His ferocious howl renting the air, he leapt effortlessly over the hole Griff had dug. Judging from the werewolf’s expression, he looked ready to commit murder. Or in the case of the zombie whooping it up on Logan’s motorcycle—dismemberment. The corpse veered off path, and the Harley’s front tire clipped the corner of a boulder, sending the bike in an airborne collision course with the slave shacks.

  The motorcycle crashed through the wall of the nearest cabin, and Logan staggered, almost falling to his knees. An anguished wail ripped from his throat, competing with the screech and splinter of flying metal and wood. Shaken from their stupor, Griff and Clarissa each grabbed one of Jemma’s arms just as four zombies shambled from the concealment of the tall snake grass.

  “Son of a bitch.” Growling low in his throat, Griff checked the safety on the shotgun. “Ready or not, we’ve got to make a run for it.”

  Jemma swallowed the panic congealing in her windpipe. “I’m good with that plan.”

  “Then let’s do it.” Clarissa squeezed Jemma’s elbow before shooting a glance over her shoulder. “Peach, Gloria…time to haul ass.”

  The other two women shuffled close behind them. Some of Jemma’s anxiety ebbed. Nothing like a wall of witches to give one a false sense of security.

  “Go!”

  Heeding Clarissa’s shout, they beelined for the open path. The two corpses on the right sprang forward. Logan snapped out of his period of mourning and dove at the pair of dead men, knocking them to the ground. From the sound of the scuffle going on, he was really enjoying taking his rage out on the zombies.

  The two corpses left standing hurtled across the field. Unprepared for their speed, Jemma yelped. Behind her, Ms. Peach grunted. “What the hell have they been drinking? Zombie Powerade?”

  Griff broke from their quintet and charged toward the oncoming zombies. The shotgun boomed, nailing one of the corpses.

  “They’re on Nettie’s home turf. Her powers are magnified.” Clutching Jemma’s wrist in a death grip, Clarissa zigzagged them through the obstacle course of snake grass and bamboo. Trying not to trip over the damn vegetation was a challenge in itself. Trying not to jump every time the shotgun roared? Impossible. They rounded an enormous clump of grass and a female zombie pounced at them. Bellowing a warrior’s cry, Clarissa pummeled the corpse with a fierce kick in the thigh. The dead woman went flying. Sparing the bewildered corpse the barest glance, Jemma stumbled after Clarissa.

  The next several minutes were an insane blur. It seemed the closer they got to the plantation house—to possible escape—more zombies showed up. Seriously, it was like the field was a damn zombie incubator or something. A corpse sporting a buzz cut and overalls—who the hell got buried in overalls?—lunged on top of Clarissa. Dead farm boy might have been scrawnier than a scarecrow, but he still managed to pin the coven mistress beneath him. Despite Clarissa’s frantic screams to make a run for it, Jemma kicked at the zombie. With Ms. Peach and Gloria’s help, she managed to antagonize the creature enough that he rolled off Clarissa. She scrambled to her feet and grabbed Jemma’s arm again. “Come on!”

  Not about to dally in a field full of dead hicks ramped up on zombie Powerade, Jemma raced along the path. Heart lodged in her throat, she scanned for a glimpse of Griffin. The shotgun’s thundering rebound had long since fallen silent, its ammunition a puny deterrent against the multiplying corpses. If one of these dead bastards got to Griff…

  A familiar head of sable hair bobbed past a thicket of bamboo, and her breath gusted free in a relieved rush. Now if they all could just reach the Pathfinder without ending up the main entree in a zombie buffet. She spotted Griff’s vehicle in the distance. Miraculously they had a straight shot to it. Her lungs burning, she ran toward the only beacon of escape.

  Thirty yards.

  Twenty.

  Fifteen.

  Slam. A fierce gust of air bulldozed into her. Her legs jolted, lost footing, forcing her butt to smack into the gravel. Dazed and winded, she spat out a straggly lank of hair that’d swept inside her mouth.

  “Welcome home, dearest Jemma.”

  She’d recognize that low, taunting whisper anywhere. Shivering, she lifted her gaze to the apparition hovering in front of her. Nettie extended an arm, her black, talon-like nails coaxing her to rise.

  The flared, grass-stained leg of Clarissa’s jeans entered the perimeter of Jemma’s vision. “Why don’t you return to the hell you crawled from, you nasty bitch.”

  Her eyes flashing with ugly menace, Nettie turned toward Clarissa. A silvery arc of light shot from Nettie’s fingertips. Clarissa dropped to her knees and clawed at her throat, a rasping choke gurgling from her.

  “Stop it!” Jemma attempted to shove onto her feet, but her useless limbs kept slip-sliding in the gravel. The pounding approach of footsteps had her tensing, until she heard the distinct click of the shotgun chambering a magazine.

  An evil smirk twisted Nettie’s mouth. “You think that will stop me?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” Griff’s calm pronouncement preceded a thundering boom from the shotgun. Rock salt showered the air. Nettie’s banshee wail cut off in mid-shriek as she disintegrated.

  Blinking, Jemma peered up at Griff. “Okay, what’s the deal with the salt?”

  “Ghosts don’t like it.”

  Ask a dumb question…

  Shaking her head, she allowed Griff to hoist her up. Behind him, she spied Logan hoofing it down the trail. At least a dozen zombies were in hot pursuit. She gulped. “Uh, guys, I think we better get our asses in the car.”

  No one needed to be told twice. They all piled in, and Griff slammed the key in the ignition just as Logan dove into the backseat. Throwing the gears into reverse, Griff floored it on the gas. Loose gravel showered beneath the tires, pinging against the undercarriage.

  Through the windshield, Jemma watched the continual flow of zombies pouring from the distant field. She swallowed. Hard.

  We are so fucked.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Griffin knocked before entering Jemma’s bedroom. He spotted her standing in front of the tall picture window. Something outside must have held her rapt attention, because she didn’t even glance in his direction when he sidled up next to her.

  “What is she doing?”

  He peered out the window and noticed Clarissa walking the perimeter of the property, waving her arms in dramatic swoops and flourishes. “She’s calling on the guardians of the four corners to help defend her wards.”

  Jemma shifted her head and blinked at him. “Four corners? Wards? I think I’m going to need a glossary to understand all this magic stuff.”

  “The four corners are what most people know as north, east, south and west. Elementals, or guardians, have assigned watchtowers in those quadrants.”

  “Elementals?” Frown lines crinkled between Jemma’s brows. “Are they anything like the elements?”

  He tweaked her nose. “Who says you need a witch’s dictionary?”

  “You’re kidding, I got it right?” Her eyes widened. “So are these elementals actual creatures?”

  “In a sense. It’s more accurate to think of them as manifestations of the elements they govern.” He pointed to a red-tailed hawk gliding above the oaks. “To the casual observer, they’d think that’s merely an ordinary hawk. But it’s Akasha, one of t
he guardians of air.”

  “You mean these elementals are just hanging around us, out in the open?”

  He chuckled. “Some, yes. The leprechauns tend to be more reclusive and cranky. And don’t even get me started about the dragons.”

  Jemma’s mouth fell open. Her focus returned to the window, and she shook her head. “Okay, you’d think none of this would shock me anymore.”

  “Cut yourself some slack, Jem. Most would be suffering a mental breakdown with everything that’s been thrown at you the past twenty-eight hours.”

  She offered him a peculiar look before crossing to the chaise lounge and plunking onto its cushion. Staring at the floor, she picked at a loose thread dangling from the hem of her shorts.

  Her sudden quiet moodiness worried him. “What’s wrong?”

  Lifting her gaze, she gaped at him. “Uh, where should I start?”

  He joined her on the chaise and clasped her fidgeting hand. “Something besides the zombies is bugging you.”

  Her contemplation returned to the Berber carpeting. The faintest tremor ran through the delicate fingers pressed against his palm. “I’m scared, Griff. Scared that…” Her throat worked with a difficult swallow.

  “Baby, talk to me.”

  She looked up, revealing eyes clouded with doubt and fear. “What if Nettie gets to me?”

  He didn’t realize his hand vised hers painfully tight until her wince clued him in. Releasing his grip, he cupped her cheek. “Never. The wards will help keep her and the zombies out.” He deliberately omitted the part about the shield also keeping them locked within the protective barrier. The only thing that’d break the wards now was one of them crossing the shield, thereby rendering it useless—hence the wards being the last line of defense. She already felt imprisoned by her nightmarish circumstances. He didn’t relish having to confirm how literal her notion had just become.

  “I’m not talking about that.”

  Her statement left him baffled. “Then what do you mean?”

  She gnawed her bottom lip between her teeth for several seconds before answering. “When we were standing in front of the plantation house a weird sensation came over me—similar to the one I experienced last night in the garden. Griff, I wanted to go inside Nettie’s house. More than anything.”

  Uneasiness washed over him at her admission. “But you didn’t.”

  “Yeah, but only because you stopped me. What if you hadn’t been there?”

  “You would have stopped yourself.” He injected his voice with a certainty he desperately wanted to possess.

  Skepticism clouded Jemma’s expression. “We don’t know that. Obviously there’s still something tying me to Nettie despite Clarissa’s spell breaker. Maybe because Nettie’s my grandmother. Who knows, maybe our blood—”

  “No.” He grasped Jemma by the upper arms, unwilling to let her venture down that dark, twisted path. He’d refused to humor Domino’s theory of genetic linkage, and he sure as hell wouldn’t give credence to Jemma’s. “Whatever is going on has been fabricated by Nettie. She’s a master manipulator. Jesus, her zombies are living proof of what she’s capable of.”

  “Then does it really matter if it’s coming from my blood or not?” She extricated herself from his hold and squeezed his kneecap with a trembling grip. “Clarissa’s wards won’t keep Nettie from stealing into my mind again, right? And if she figures out a way to stay a permanent guest inside my head, we’re doomed, one way or another.”

  Helplessness threatened to crush him as he took in the myriad doubts lurking in Jemma’s eyes. “You can fight her, baby. Deep down, you’re stronger than Nettie.”

  Smiling tremulously, she twined their fingers together. “You’ve always believed in me, no matter what. That’s one of the things I’ve always loved about you.” Tears collected on her dusky lashes. Before they could spill he whisked them away with his thumb.

  “I—I want you to promise me something.”

  “Anything.” He leaned forward and kissed her tenderly.

  Their lips parted and she stared at him, a glint of determination replacing the shadows in her irises. “If you see me slipping toward the dark side, kill me.”

  Beaming him with a two by four would have a less devastating effect than her request. He dropped her hand. “Are you out of your fucking mind? How could you even think…?” Jesus. He lurched to his feet, the blood pounding in his eardrums.

  “I’d rather die than be responsible for a zombie apocalypse.”

  He whirled on her. “Well neither are gonna happen. Got it?”

  “Griff, please listen—”

  He shoved his shaking index finger in her face. “There is no goddamn way I’m going along with your ridiculous proposition, understand? No. God. Damn. Way.”

  “You’re being unreasonable.”

  “Fuck yeah I am. Know why? Because your idea is asinine.” He knew he was bellowing, but nothing short of a spontaneous case of laryngitis would convince him to rein in his vehement outrage.

  She tossed up her arms. “Maybe, but it’s the only one I have. So deal with it.” Shooting him a mulish look, she stalked to the bathroom and slammed the door on him.

  Fury and frustration duking it out inside him, he glared at the offensive door. He was half tempted to kick it in. And what, continue this pointless argument? Growling, he stomped from the room.

  Downstairs, he grabbed a beer from the fridge. Nearly snapping the bottle’s neck, he wrenched off the cap. He managed to slam three quarters of the beverage before Clarissa strode into the kitchen thirty seconds later. After draining the remainder of the bottle he reached for another.

  Clarissa cocked one tawny eyebrow. “Impressive for someone who doesn’t even like beer.”

  “Mood I’m in, I could guzzle monkey piss and not give a rat’s ass.” Actually, the swill in his mouth wasn’t that far off the mark. Grimacing, he lowered the bottle and inspected the label. “Why do people drink this shit?”

  “Hmm, perhaps to dull whatever crappiness has thrown them in a foul mood?”

  Catching the prodding speculation in her eyes, he thunked the bottle on the center island. “Probably. Too bad it doesn’t work.”

  Clarissa tucked her hands in the front pockets of her jeans. “So what’s going on?”

  He debated not telling her, but what was the point? She’d ferret the information out anyway if she decided to poke around in his brain with a truth-gathering spell. “Jemma wants me to kill her if she goes down the dark side.”

  Her chest expanded with a deep sigh. “I was afraid this might happen.”

  “Well it’s not going to happen.” Baring his teeth, he pushed away from the counter. “I don’t care what it takes—there is no way in hell Jemma is sacrificing herself.”

  Logan tromped into the kitchen, his mug devoid of its usual obnoxious grin. Apparently he was still mourning the demise of his motorcycle. Without granting Clarissa or Griffin even a cursory glance, he grabbed a beer and slugged it down, the sound of his chugging swallows breaking the silence.

  A fine prickling on the nape of his neck apprised Griffin of Clarissa’s insistent gaze. He swiveled. Her pointed scrutiny shifted between him and Logan, her expression a dead giveaway to the course of her thoughts.

  Ah hell, he had said he didn’t care what it took. Should have known that would come back and bite him in the ass.

  Logan lowered his beer and granted them both a wary glance. “What the fuck did I do now?”

  Her attention returning to Griffin, Clarissa nodded twice in Logan’s direction. “Ask him.”

  Griffin glowered. “Why? You already demanded it of us.”

  Her lips thinned, sure sign that she wasn’t exactly pleased with how he’d phrased his words. “Consider it a symbolic gesture of goodwill.”

  “Are you out of your fu—?” He nipped off the remainder of the oath when she waggled her finger in warning of an oncoming whammy. Gritting his teeth, he pivoted toward Logan. “Will you help me se
duce Jemma?”

  Logan stared at him for a long moment before a flicker of devilment danced in his eyes. “Shit, Catman. You lost that feline charm already?”

  Somehow he found the willpower to resist rearranging Logan’s face. Christ, this was a damn disaster in the making. “I was referring to me and you together.” Catching the beginning stages of the werewolf’s trademark smirk, Griffin practically growled his clarification. “Me, Jemma and you.” If there was any justice in the world, he’d be stricken with amnesia in the next two seconds. Otherwise going through the rest of life with the horrific mental image of him and Logan…

  Shaking off a massive shudder, Griffin paced in front of the center island. “Look, I know we have our issues, but I’m willing to put them aside for Jemma’s sake.”

  Logan settled his bottle on the counter and scrubbed a hand over his goatee. “Funny, I said the same thing to Jemma.”

  The admission managed to ease some of the tension in Griffin’s shoulders. “Good. I’m glad we at least see eye to eye on this.” Strangely enough, the prospect of sharing Jemma with Logan didn’t immediately foster ideas of trashing the kitchen with the werewolf’s lifeless body.

  But the night was still young.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Why couldn’t Griff understand where she was coming from? He’d damn well ask the same thing from her if he were in her position.

  Muttering beneath her breath, Jemma scruffed a towel through the damp ends of her hair with stiff, jerky motions. Suddenly conscious of the torture she was inflicting on her scalp, she sighed and draped the towel on the hook near the shower. After changing into a cheery pink sundress that did nothing to brighten her mood, she slumped into the small rattan chair situated in front of the vanity. She couldn’t find the energy or the desire to rifle through the array of cosmetics neatly stacked on the etched glass tray. And really, why bother with makeup? It’s not like the zombies no doubt lurking in the woods cared if she had bags under her eyes.