Blue Voodoo: A Romantic Retelling of Bluebeard (The Hidden Kingdom Series Book 2)

by Jennifer Blackstream

  “You are no different than the rest of your kind. You yearn for a bond, yearn to serve. It is who you are.”

  “Stop fighting and accept it.”

  “We know who you are, what you are. Take comfort in that.”

  Their voices swirled in his head, mocking tones full of sweet condescension. Julien slammed the bottle back on the pantry shelf and devoured the distance between him and his sword. Once he had the sheath roped on his belt again, the blade’s hilt gripped in a white-knuckled fist, his nerves settled, the voices growing fainter, fading away. “I accept your offer.”

  Dominique came out from behind the screen and the rest of what Julien had intended to say died on his tongue. The dress clinging to her curves wasn’t quite a wedding dress, but it could easily pass for one. Layers of white cotton flared from her hips, the lace-trimmed hem rustling around her ankles. The bodice was snug enough to show off the tempting swells of her breasts, the long sleeves belled and tight at the wrists. A matching headband embellished with small pearls took the place of her head scarf, the pale sash a wonderful contrast to her beautiful brown eyes, and the spiraling ringlets framing her face like a halo.

  “Agreed,” she confirmed, her voice as empty as the well inside him.

  She crossed the room and offered him her back. He blinked dumbly at the bare skin revealed by the unbound laces of the dress. The trails left by Parlangua’s claws were angry red furrows in her otherwise perfect complexion, the wound’s edges hard with dried blood. She dangled a bottle over her shoulder.

  “Could you put some of this on the wounds?”

  Without taking his eyes from her back, he accepted the bottle. The scent of lavender wafted past his nose as he removed the cork, the scent growing stronger as he spilled some of the oil onto her skin, smeared it with his fingertips. A few drops tried to escape and he quickly caught them with his thumb, returning them to the broken skin.

  Dominique reached around her ribs and gently fingered the edge of the longest wound, the only one she could reach. The bottle sagged in his grasp as he studied the pattern she drew over the injury, smearing the oil so the marks glistened with every flicker of firelight. The symbol flared blue as it sank into the wound. Injured flesh blurred, shifted. He blinked and the wounds were closed, new pink raised scars where once there had been open cuts.

  “Thank you.”

  Dominique turned and extended her hand. “Our deal?”

  “You want to shake hands on it?”

  He couldn’t keep the incredulousness out of his voice, wasn’t sure he wanted to try. Dominique arched an eyebrow.

  “It is how business dealings are conducted, is it not?”

  The kernel of dread in his stomach grew as he numbly closed his hand around hers. This is all wrong. All wrong.

  “Madame Laveau?”

  Julien and Dominique turned and found a young woman standing just inside the doorway. She patted down a mauve and green headscarf, her other hand dusting down her plum skirts. Her bare feet were covered in mud like she’d waded through the swamp water in a hurry.

  “We, uh, we were waiting—wondering, when, uh, if you were ready…?”

  She trailed off, her attention flickering between Julien and Dominique like she only just realized she’d interrupted something…interesting. But she seemed more panicked at the notion than anything, yanking at the hem of her blouse like the collar was cutting off her air supply. “My…uh, apologies, Madame Laveau.”

  Dominique’s face softened. “I’ll be right there, Genevieve. Thank you.”

  The girl half-melted with relief and then took off like a rabbit for the safety of the village.

  “We’d better get back. I’ve got to announce our wedding and make sure the prêt savann can be here to marry us.”

  She met his eyes, but there was tightness in her jaw, a forced lift to her shoulders. Julien stiffened, his gut twisting in a knot..

  “You… You want to marry tonight?”

  Dominique shoved the crate containing her supplies into Julien’s arms.

  “Why not? Best get started as soon as possible. I’m sure you want to get back on your ship sooner rather than later, and my people will expect us to have some kind of a honeymoon before you set sail.”

  The word “honeymoon” fell into the space between them like a life preserver falling onto a particularly rough sea. Julien sidled up to Dominique, wanting to put an arm around her but foiled by the armful of crate he carried. His grip worsened around the crate as he wrenched his face into a pale imitation of his usual roguish grin.

  “Ah, yes, the honeymoon.” He leaned down to brush the shell of her ear with his lips, ignoring the way the bottles clinked. “I favor a long honeymoon, don’t you?”

  As serene as ever, Dominique spun away and gathered a few objects from the mantle into a small red satchel that hung from a cord of braided silver thread. She fastened it around her waist and twisted it so the bag hung over her hip before she quickly beckoned him to follow her out the door. Unease rocked Julien’s stomach like the bow of a rickety ship, the crate creaked under the pressure of his hold. This was wrong. Her spark was gone, snuffed out by their wedding, of all things. Where was her sharp tongue? Where was her heated irritation with all things Julien? Where was the fight, where was the legendary haughtiness of the voodoo queen?

  They stood in silence, and even though she was desperately trying to keep her shoulders squared, they slumped. She tried to cover it with deep breaths, but he’d worn that same look of false calm enough to know it on sight. And he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was solely responsible for the defeat weighing her frame down. It was like catching a playful dolphin in a fishing net. The sensation that something beautiful, something worth treasuring, had been damaged by callous ignorance.

  Well, why don’t I put on a skirt and have done with it?

  Julien shook his head and sneered at himself. He’d won, hadn’t he? Gotten what he wanted? Was he going to sour his victory with second thoughts and sappy reflection? No, I’m not.

  He balanced the crate on one hip and slammed the door to her cottage shut. There. That’s for her lousy attitude. Energy sparked from the door knob, biting his fingers like bottled lightening. He nearly dropped the crate as he jerked back and narrowed his eyes. Damn door is as snippy as its owner.

  Mulch crunched beneath her feet as she started toward the celebration. “When we get to the site, I’ll need to speak with my assistants. I’ll send one of them to fetch the priest, and I’ll have the others arrange a simple archway for us to marry under. We’ll have enough of an audience, and I suppose it will be nice to have most of the village there.” She waited for him to catch up, then added, “I intend to ask that in lieu of wedding gifts, they cook a meal to share with someone less fortunate. After all, you are a man of means and I am not without my own wealth. We don’t need their gifts.”

  “That’s…” He looked away. “Fine.”

  “The Midsummer Celebration will begin after the opening ritual. We’ll need to be present for most of it, especially the first night.”

  Again, the mention of the Midsummer Celebration failed to elicit any of the usual eagerness. Strange since the week long celebration of freedom and passion had long been one of his favorite times. It was one of the things he’d missed most during his time at sea. One of the only things he’d missed. One of the two things.

  She chatted on about different spirits that were to be honored, educating him without her usual passion for the subject, and it took a moment to realize the pain aching in his chest was the same he felt whenever he’d thought of her over the years. He…missed her. She was standing right in front of him, and she couldn’t have been farther away.

  A carriage was waiting at the edge of the bayou to deliver them to the ritual site. As Julien settled the crate on the floorboard, Dominique swept up to her assistants waiting a few yards away. Clad in colorful clothing, they huddled around her like vibrant petals of a bayou lily. He tried to loo
k away, and almost managed it, but one of them risked a glance over Dominique’s shoulder.

  He winked at her, but there was no spirit in the gesture, no mischief.

  She lifted her eyebrow like she wasn’t convinced that was the best way to make a first impression as her mistress’s husband, and something about her expression must have alerted Dominique to the exchange because she stiffened and hurried the girls off. She didn’t even bother to glare at him on principle, just went about ordering people to and fro to make arrangements for their marriage, Julien realized that he’d gotten everything he’d asked for.

  And lost everything he wanted.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Why hello, my old friend. Lie to me and tell me what a wonderful idea this is.”

  Dominique raised the short glass, and the bourbon glittered in the firelight as if to say “Of course this was a wonderful idea! Marrying a man who insults you at every opportunity is always a good plan!”

  “Sarcastic alcohol.” She closed her eyes, basking in the pleasant bouquet honed by generations of her family. Caramel, vanilla, and ripe peach steeped in an oak wood barrel. The tiny nearly unnoticeable hint of nutmeg spice, her mother’s secret ingredient. It was a warm, familiar cocktail. If only she could really lose herself in that scent. Let it carry her back in time.

  “I know a demon who talks to his cigarettes.”

  The warm weight of two hearty glasses of bourbon kept her from startling, as the chair beside her that had been empty a scarce second ago now held the familiar form of her stalker from Mu.

  “Oh?” she queried. “He talks to his cigarettes?”

  Tenoch’s expression remained serious—as she suspected it always was.

  “Yes. Although, I do think he does it more to annoy the angel than anything. His cigarette only seems to enter the conversation when he wants to talk about why the angel is blushing.” Tenoch lifted a shoulder. “A childish antic, but the demon enjoys it to no end.”

  “I am not talking to my glass of bourbon to annoy anyone.” Dominique lowered her glass to the smooth wooden table, turning it in circles and watching the firelight from the surrounding torches flicker in the liquid depths. “I am speaking to the bourbon because right now, it is the sanest option.”

  His eyebrows knitted, and she pointed over her shoulder.

  The Midsummer Celebration was in full swing. Men, women, and children danced and sang, wearing colors so bright they challenged the night sky to keep its shadowy secrets. Food and drink were readily available for all, and the vendors paid little if any attention to paltry things such as payment. Joy was thick in the air, an invigorating perfume that raised spirits and rendered all right with the world. A charming parade marched past the table nestled against the side of Hugon’s tavern where Dominique had sat alone until Tenoch’s arrival.

  “That’s a lovely ring.”

  Dominique snorted, amicably glancing down at her “wedding ring.” It was beautiful, a gold band tastefully etched with ancient symbols of happiness and loyalty. It wasn’t gaudy in the least, not a ring that shouted to all who saw it that the presenter of said ring was a man of means. In point of fact, it hadn’t been chosen by a man at all.

  “He came here intending to force me to marry him, and he didn’t even bother to bring a ring.”

  Like her body, her voice felt soaked in the liquor, her cadence deep, smooth, and steady. She sounded like her old self, like the powerful voodoo queen her people so loved and respected. What a fortunate coincidence that this was the night she could allow herself more than one bourbon—could even act a bit silly if she pleased. It was Midsummer’s night, and no one was immune from the festivities—not even Dominique Laveau.

  Tenoch used a sharp thumb nail to trace the grooves in the table. “When last we spoke, you gave me the distinct impression that you would not marry him. May I be so bold as to ask why you changed your mind?”

  Dominique opened her mouth, a ready response on her tongue, a simple explanation involving good business and not having had all the facts until now. A reflection of the bodies writhing behind her sparkled in her glass, reminding her that this was a night to live free, to forget convention and…

  “Did you know he is an impundulu?”

  “Yes.” He shrugged a careless shoulder. “I still see on both planes, the physical and the astral. The pirate’s other form is quite visible.”

  “I didn’t know.” She cast a surreptitious glance around to be sure that the joviality of the occasion was keeping attention off of her conversation. “Did you also know that unlike everything I’ve ever been told about his race, he is adamant that he will never bond with a magic wielder, that he will keep the well inside his being empty? He sees it as enslavement.”

  “He married you. Does he no longer have the same fear?”

  Dominique stared harder at her glass, eyes following Tenoch’s finger as he reached out and nudged it, making the liquid rock. “He is desperate enough to risk it.” She pulled the glass away from Tenoch. “And of course there’s the new kingdom you told him about—the one he cannot enter without a wife.”

  Tenoch searched the depths of the liquor. “You are angry with me for telling him of the new kingdom? I did tell him I was only guessing about the need to be part of a mated pair.” He reached for the glass again. “Perhaps it’s all just a convenient excuse to be with you.”

  She tugged the bourbon away from Tenoch’s fingers and took a sip. Exhaling through her nose to savor the aroma, she clapped the glass back on the table, cradling it protectively with both hands. “Whether part of him wants to be with me or not is irrelevant. His fear of enslavement, of bonding, is greater than any…affection he has for me. He would never stay. Not for the right reasons.”

  “Madame Laveau!”

  The shout came from behind her, but Dominique didn’t turn. Rather, she watched the bourbon slide against the sides of her glass as she swirled it around, letting her mind dance over the events of the day—studiously avoiding any thoughts of what events might occur tonight. She would speak with whoever was shouting at her when they saw fit to sit down and address her in a calm and respectful manner, not bellowing at her as though she were a wayward hound.

  A body half-collapsed into the chair beside her, alerting her that Tenoch had disappeared again. She idly noted that the man had an uncanny ability to come and go without warning. There was probably something more to that stealth. She’d think on it later. For now, she zeroed in on the next man to come calling.

  He is such a pretty young man. He should apply himself to something other than the bedroom.

  Narcisse had tucked his admirable physique into a wonderful sky blue silk shirt and a pair of velvet maroon pants dusted with amber granules from a dirt road. His shiny boots were caked with similar red soil, like he’d abandoned the regular paths to cut around the parade.

  He struggled to catch his breath. “M…M…Madame Laveau, I have come to plead for your forgiveness.”

  “And what is it that you need my forgiveness for?” Dominique took another sip of her whiskey, casting a glance around the parade for some sign of her husband. Still hiding. Coward.

  “You must believe that I didn’t know you were the woman he spoke of.”

  Narcisse reached across the table, hands stopping short of hers. She arched an eyebrow as his fingers flexed into the wood. If he had the audacity to grab her, that would be a first.

  Am I not as scary as I used to be? What happened?

  “You are upset.” She slipped her hand off the bar and settled it on her lap, using the whiskey cradled in her other to gesture to him “You must relax. You didn’t know I was the woman who spoke of?”

  “My friend!” Narcisse’s gaze darted about as he leaned closer as if about to reveal some awful secret. “My friend, the captain. The one I told you was besotted, who pined for a woman here in Sanguennay.”

  Julien. Something about her expression gave Narcisse pause, and he leaned back and straightened in
his seat, chest rising and falling rapidly. She pursed her lips and waved for him to continue. “What about him?”

  “Madame Laveau, if I’d known it was you, you must believe me, I would have warned you. I would have told you that you must not give in, that you must not marry him.” Narcisse wrung his hands until his fingers were red and angry. “This is why I wanted some sort of spell to dissuade his passion, to make him—”

  “Narcisse, I can only assume you are speaking of my husband.” Dominique waited for the eager nod from Narcisse before continuing. “Yes, well, obviously he is my husband now, so warnings are irrelevant. I do not hold you responsible for anything, so you may continue on with your life with a clear conscience.”

  “But your life is in danger!” he hissed.

  Dominique put her fingers to her temple, trying to ease the headache forming there. “What are you talking about?”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  A laughing couple stumbled past their table, bumping into Narcisse’s chair. The table edge jabbed him in the stomach and he grunted and shot an annoyed look at the jovial villagers. “Perhaps we could go someplace quieter to finish this conversation?”

  Dominique was about to tell him they could well finish the conversation right here. Going off alone with a known prostitute wouldn’t make any of her people blink an eye—she was known to be nonjudgmental of those she helped and socialized with. But Julien would likely be…irate. “Of course. Lead the way.”

  She followed the young man away from the loudest of the revelers, retreating closer to the shadows of the tree line that bordered the swamp. Narcisse tucked himself beside a wide oak and rapidly gestured for her to come closer. Dominique sighed at the theatrics, but humored him with a few steps closer.

  “He’s been married before,” Narcisse whispered.

  Glass shattered in her grip. She exhaled slowly through her nose, cursing the warm wetness that soaked her palm. Blood and bourbon. What a waste.

  “When? Who?”

  “Three women.” Narcisse spoke the words under his breath as if the trees themselves were listening. “Triplets from an island near the shores of Ville au Camp. Rich women.” He tried to stifle a shudder. “And he killed them all.”