by M. D. Massey
Moreover, not even the scent of blood remained. It was one hell of a clean-up job, so good I almost suspected he’d hired one of the fae to do it for him. But the magic smelled human, not fae—and that worried me.
Either Germain has a freaky-talented mage working for him, or he is one himself. And if that’s the case, he’s going to be hella hard to kill.
I was starting to wish I was getting paid for this job, because it was damned sure turning out to be a pain in the ass. A call to Remy had revealed that the coven leader was as clueless as I regarding his rival’s whereabouts. DeCoudreaux admitted with some chagrin that Germain had ways and means of staying hidden that foiled even his extensive intelligence network.
In fact, it appeared to be yet another reason why he’d asked for my help in the matter; Remy had assumed I could use magic to track Germain down. Due to that assumption, he accused me of trying to get him to do my work for me instead of doing it myself. I assured him I was only trying to save time, and hung up before he could ask how I intended to track Germain down.
Best to keep the fucker guessing. With any luck, I’ll get to kill that prick too.
Lacking any local contacts beyond the coven leader, I had no way of figuring out where Germain had gone. Still, I’d expected I might need outside help to get things done in New Orleans, and thus I’d come to town with an ace up my sleeve. After hanging up on Remy, I quickly pulled up my list of contacts on my phone, finding the one I wanted. I clicked the call button and waited to hear it ring.
“Madame Rousseau’s, where your future is our business. This is the Madame speaking. How can I be of service?”
“Hello, Janice.”
“Colin McCool, what a surprise! It’s good to know you’re not so busy saving the world that you can’t take time to call a friend and chat.” I let the silence hang between us for a bit. “Hmm—so you didn’t call to chat, then. What’s up?”
Janice—also known as Madame Rousseau—was Austin’s resident expert on all things voodoo, a fact that I found rather humorous considering she was as pale and ginger as I was. How a little white girl like her had become a high-level mambo, or voodoo priestess, was beyond me. I just assumed that voodoo society was way more egalitarian than the mundane world, and had never questioned her about it.
“I happen to be in your old stomping grounds, and I need an assist.”
“You’re in N’awlins? I wish I had known you were visiting. I’d have offered to come along and show you my city.”
“The company would have been welcome, but unfortunately, this was a business trip.”
Janice laughed. “It’s always business with you, Colin. Such a shame.” Her voice trailed off, and she cleared her throat. “So, what can I help you with?”
“I’m tracking down a rogue vamp, and I need a local who can help me find him.” Silence. “Tall order?”
“No, it’s not that. Any number of local mambos or houngans could track this creature down. However, I can’t think of any who would help you do so. Long ago, the N’awlins voodoo society decided to stay out of vampire affairs, under agreement that the vampires would do likewise. Outside of a few bokor I know of, I doubt anyone would take the work.”
Bokor were spellcasters for hire who often used black mojo to achieve their ends. I didn’t want to mess with a bokor, that was for sure. Dealing with all these evil vamps was bad enough.
“Eh, that’s out of the question. Any other options?”
I heard Janice exhale, short and quick. Not quite a sigh, but close. “Well, I do have someone I can send you to. But, I can’t promise you’ll walk out of her home without paying a steep price.”
“This is important, Janice, and I’m willing to do what it takes to get the job done. Besides, I can take care of myself. Who is this person, anyway?”
“It’s my maw maw, actually. But Gran Brigitte doesn’t normally take kindly to visitors, so you’re going to have to butter her up if you want her help.”
Janice sent me to an address in the Garden District, with the admonishment to bring her “maw maw” a special rum infused with ghost peppers and a black rooster.
“And don’t harm the rooster,” she advised. “Not on your life.”
Great.
So, there I was, walking through an upscale neighborhood in the Garden District, past multi-million-dollar homes with a mason jar of homemade hooch in one hand and a black rooster under my other arm. As we got closer to the address Janice had given me, the rooster started clucking and screeching. I didn’t think it was out of fear, because it didn’t try to get away—obviously, the rooster knew something I didn’t. Regardless, all the noise it was making was getting me some strange looks.
“Shut up, you,” I whispered.
“Baw-ka-bak-bak-bak,” the rooster clucked in reply.
I soon reached the address, a beautiful pale-yellow two-story home on Prytania with a white picket fence, black shutters, a huge covered front porch with white Roman columns, and second-story dormer windows peeking out over the street. I decided a little magical recon was in order, so I walked past while scanning it in the magical spectrum.
That’s… odd? How about not possible?
The place was spelled up, just as I’d expected from a skilled voodoo priestess. However, the magic used to create the protective wards and charms wasn’t human at all. Instead, it had a peculiar signature, one I would recognize anywhere.
Tuatha Dé Danann. What the actual fuck?
I walked all the way around the block, taking time to work out just why in the hell a voodoo priestess would be using Tuatha magic. When I came back for a second pass, an older, regal-looking black woman sat on the front porch, slowly rocking back and forth on a bench swing that hadn’t been there moments before.
She was tall and slender, but in a healthy way, with a skin color that a slave owner might have once called redbone—not quite Melungeon, but close. Her dark, reddish-brown hair was straightened and pulled back into a bun. Her nose was prominent and wide, but not unpleasant, her lips full and sensual, and her grey eyes sparkled with mischief. Her outfit spoke of money and a casual disregard for convention, as she wore denim skinny jeans, sensible pumps, and a lovely pussybow peplum blouse in an African print.
“Might as well come up here an’ greet me, boy,” she said in a full, rich voice that virtually rang with command. Her accent that was both familiar and peculiar—Southern, but with traces of Ireland as well. “Everyone an’ their sister done seen you strutting past me house with gifts for the goddess. ’Sides, only a fool could think you’re on a casual afternoon stroll with that fat black rooster under your arm. Get your pretty pale ass on up here and tell me what brings you.”
Busted.
I opened the gate only after the wards had been dropped, and stepped onto the porch while eyeing the woman with polite suspicion. By the time I stood before her, I had it figured out.
“Gran Brigitte, I presume? Or should I say, Brigid?”
Her lips curled into a smug grin, dimpling her cheeks as well. “Da’ said you were sharper than you looked. I s’pose he was right. You can set that fucking bird down—he’s not going anywhere. And leave the rum on the coffee table, if you don’t mind.”
One second we were on her porch, and the next I was standing in the middle of a cozy, well-lit sitting room. Sunlight poured in from nearby windows, bouncing off the pastel yellow wallpaper and white, raised-panel wainscoting. Colorful paintings in gold-leaf frames adorned the walls, including one that looked to be a castle in the Irish countryside. Victorian-style couches and chairs were arranged neatly around the space, and a stack of books sat on a side table near a particularly comfy-looking chair set close to the windows to take advantage of the ample natural light.
Maman Brigitte, sometimes known as Gran Brigitte and also Brigid in the Celtic pantheon, was nowhere to be seen. However, I heard the whistle of escaping steam and the clinking of china and silverware coming from an adjacent room, so I assumed she was prepa
ring tea. I set the rum on the coffee table and stood by the window, admiring the garden view.
“You have a lovely home,” I called out.
“An’ you have a lovely ass,” Maman Brigitte said directly behind me as she pinched my posterior. She balanced a small silver tea service set in her other hand, complete with china tea cups and saucers, which she gracefully set down on the coffee table. “Now, tell me what brings such a fine-looking young man to my home. I assume it’s not to deliver a strip-o-gram.”
Maman Brigitte sat in a high-backed easy chair and gestured to a nearby couch. I sat. The goddess crossed her legs and rested her elbows on the arms of her chair, steepling her fingers as she watched me like a bobcat eyeing a fat, juicy rabbit.
“Mmm, what I could do to you,” she purred as she unscrewed the lid from the jar of rum I brought her. “You ever fuck a goddess, druid? It’d be an experience you wouldn’t soon forget.”
“Um, no, ma’am, I can’t say that I have.”
She rolled her eyes and took a long drink from the jar, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand after. “You can drop the ‘ma’am’ thing. I’m anything but a polite Southern matron. Fuck sakes, but it’s been forever since I had some dick.” Maman Brigitte set the jar down and grabbed her breasts from underneath, giving the tips of each a pinch as she pushed them up. “Makes my nipples hard just looking at you.”
Well, this isn’t uncomfortable at all.
“Um, thanks?”
She tossed her head back and laughed, a rich, deep belly laugh that lasted for several seconds. “Janice said you were uptight, but I had no idea.” She wiped her eyes with a knuckle. “I’m just giving you shit, druid. Although I could use some dick, and that’s a fact, but I think my granddaughter has a thing for you.”
I pondered that statement for several seconds before responding. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Maman Brigitte, but you’re definitely not like any of the other Celtic gods I’ve met.”
“Met a few, have you?” She began counting off on her fingers. “Let’s see—my da’, of course, Lugh, Niamh, and Fuamnach, plus the others who haven’t revealed themselves.” She chuckled. “Oh, don’t look so shocked. The whole lot of them have been meddling in your life for some time now. Fuckers don’t know when to leave well enough alone. S’why I left, in fact, and took up with the Ghede. Not only are we a hell of a lot more fun, but we don’t mess with humans unless they call on us first—unlike those bastards back in Underhill.”
In the voodoo tradition, the Ghede were the loas of death and fertility. They were known to be boisterous, foul-mouthed, and fond of a good party. In the short time I’d been with Brigitte, I could see why she took to them.
“How did you end up here, anyway? If you don’t mind my asking.”
She gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head as she snatched the jar up again. “Not at all. I got here the same way Niamh arrived in Austin—the Irish brought me. They called, I came. Then I met the Baron, and the rest is history.”
I nodded, feigning contemplation as I considered how to frame my next question. “And… this?” I said, moving my hand in circles in front of my face. “Don't get me wrong, you’re a lovely, um, death goddess. I'm just curious as to why you changed your look.”
“Oh, that?” Maman Brigitte said. “That wasn’t my doing. Most don't know this, but the gods and their aspects are shaped by those who worship them. After I was taken up by those who practice voodoo, my appearance began to reflect that of the people who worshipped me, African and European both. Honestly, after being a ginger for so long, I think having some color is an improvement.” She waggled her eyebrows at me. “Care to see if the thatch on the roof matches the carpet in the foyer?”
I waved my hands back and forth in front of me. “Um, no! I mean, I’ll take your word for it. No offense—on either count.”
“None taken. Political correctness is just a cruel joke that Anansi, Kokopelli, Coyote, Iktomi, and Heyoka played on the white man for fucking over their children. The other tricksters thought it was such a great gag, they spread it all over Europe and Australia too. You should hear Loki, Reynard, Veles, and Crow go on about it. Now, enough dicking around—why don’t you tell me what you came here for?”
“Have you ever heard of a vampire by the name of Saint Germain?”
The goddess tipped the rim of the mason jar at me. “Ah, ‘The Man Who Wouldn’t Die.’ Yes, I’ve heard of him. Louis XV was rather fond of the vampire, you know. Germain finally grew tired of the king ignoring his advice, so he disappeared and eventually ended up in N’awlins. Was on the losing end of a power struggle within the local coven, oh, a hundred years ago or so. But that’s vampire business, and we stay out of it. What of him?”
“I have to kill him.”
“If he’s back in town, he shouldn’t be hard to find. As I recall, he threw the most elaborate parties. Shouldn’t be hard to sneak into the next one he puts on.” Maman Brigitte must’ve read something on my face, because she clucked her tongue with a chuckle. “Tripped over your dick and let him escape your clutches, hmm? And now you need Maman Brigitte to tell you where he is.”
“That pretty much sums it up, yes.”
“Did my granddaughter tell you my price is steep?”
I bobbed my head. “She did.”
“And you’re prepared to pay?”
“In all honesty, that depends,” I replied.
“Good answer.” Maman Brigitte laughed. She took another slug of rum, wiping her mouth on her sleeve this time. “Easy to see you’ve dealt with the Tuatha before.” She rubbed her chin with the tip of her thumb. “Hmm, I should make you pay in sexual favors, but then you’d keep owing me ad infinitum.”
“Wouldn’t the Baron get mad?” I asked, not wanting to cause offense by turning her down a third time. I was fairly positive she was merely joking, but no sense tempting fate.
“Pfah! That old prick is always chasing mortal tail. It’d serve him right, but you might not survive the curse he’d put on you if he found out. Now, let me think a moment.”
I waited, eyeing the tea service and cookies she’d laid out but resisting the urge to partake. She knew I wouldn’t touch it, but it wouldn’t do to not offer me anything, either. Gods were weird like that.
Suddenly, Maman Brigitte thrust a finger in the air with a shout of, “That’s it!”
“What’s it?” I asked.
“I got it—I know how you can pay me back.”
“Go on—”
She winked at me with a wolfish grin. “You can take my granddaughter out on a date.”
“Seriously?” I asked, with perhaps a bit more disgust in my voice than I’d intended. Janice was attractive enough, but I had enough women problems as it was, and I certainly didn’t need to compound the issue.
Maman Brigitte’s voice lowered an octave, and I swear the temperature in the room dropped a few degrees. “What’s wrong with my granddaughter?”
“Nothing, nothing! It’s just that one girlfriend just broke up with me, my ex is living in my backyard, and the alpha’s daughter is working me, hard.”
The goddess frowned. “Oh, poor you. Still, it sounds like you’re free and clear to play the field.” She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, pushing them up, and sat back in her chair. “Nope, there’s no way around it, because I won’t accept any other form of payment. You will take Janice out on a date, sometime before the next full moon.”
The moon had nearly been full the night before, so I wanted to make sure I was clear on the timeframe. “So, basically, I have to take her out before—say, midnight, four weeks from today?”
“Correct.”
“And what if she declines?”
Maman Brigitte batted her eyes. “Then, I suppose you’ll have to take me out on a date instead,” she said in a husky voice. “But my granddaughter won’t say no.”
I scratched the side of my head and sighed. “Fine, I’ll do it. Now, how do I find Saint Germain?”
11
That’s where I fucked up. I should have said, “Where do I find Saint Germain?” But instead, I’d asked “how.” Rule of thumb when dealing with the fae and Tuatha—always say exactly what you mean, leaving no ambiguity in negotiations and requests.
I’d failed to do that, which was why I was sitting in the front of an airboat, speeding through the swamp in search of a supposedly insane and incredibly dangerous werewolf.
The boat’s engine cut off, and we glided up on the shore of a marshy island, way out in the middle of the swampland south of Houma. My guide was a stoic, aged black man named Odilon who was one of Maman Brigitte’s houngan. Odilon was tall and stoutly built, with thick ropy forearms and shoulders as broad as a cypress trunk. I watched as he secured the boat, waiting for him to let me know our next move.
Instead of talking to me, Odilon marched off into the swamp. The old man moved fast, and before I knew it, his tan fishing vest and matching boonie hat had disappeared into the trees. I followed the sound of his waders squishing and sucking in the mud as I hurried to catch up.
“I take it we’re walking the rest of the way?” I asked as I caught up to him.
Odilon grunted. “That or we let ol’ Jean-Michel know we’re coming.”
The old man spoke with just a touch of backwater Louisiana accent, but he was an educated man and an expert on bayou myths and legends. Maman Brigitte had told me he was a retired professor of anthropology who’d taught at Tulane, which was how he’d become one of her priests. His specialty was folklore and religion, and his research had led him straight to her doorstep.
“Fair enough. Just point me to him, and I’ll take care of the rest. I’ve dealt with plenty of werewolves in my day.”
“Pfft. Not like Jean-Michel. For one, he’s old—hundreds of years, maybe. Second, he wasn’t turned by another lycanthrope. He became what he is today because he was cursed by a bokor.”
I squashed a mosquito that had been feeding on my arm. “But he’s still a ’thrope, right? I’ll just shoot him up with silver rounds, then when he’s weakened, I’ll force him to tell me where to find Saint Germain. Piece of cake.”