by Amy Sumida
“Who be these fine men?” She asked in a Creole accent just as thick as Samedi's. “Such lovely lookers. For me? You shouldn't have.”
“Aw, how ya hurt me!” Samedi cried dramatically. “You want one; go ahead and try, mon cher. I love me a good cat fight.”
“They yours?” She asked me.
I chuckled. “Brigitte, these are my husbands; Trevor, Kirill, and Azrael.” The men nodded to her as I said their names. “But Pan is single.”
“Pan!” Brigitte declared. “Oh, honey, I heard 'bout you. Talk say you more den an all-nighter, you an all-weeker, even an all-monther ifen the inspiration take hold of ye.”
“That I am!” Pan declared proudly. “Care to inspire me, beautiful lady?”
“You be an all-deader if you touch my wife, Pan,” Samedi said without any heat.
The couple may flirt with others and do a lot of watching, but they were monogamous and very much in love. No one was going to touch Brigitte; she'd hurt them before her husband could.
“No problem.” Pan held his hands up. “Anyone else here married? I don't want to get into a fight on my first visit. Maybe my second, but on the first, that would be rude.”
“We're all single here, cher; you come on over,” a honey-skinned beauty called. “We appreciate a man who can last.”
“And we heard 'bout your flute,” another woman said with a lascivious smile. “I been meanin' to try my hand at playin' one.”
“They're Pan pipes,” Pan corrected. “But I may have a better instrument for you to put your lips around.”
“Bring it here, Greek,” the first woman dropped to her knees and licked her lips. “I'll blow every pipe you have.”
“I said I wanted to blow him,” the other woman protested.
“Ladies, you can each have a turn making music with me,” Pan said as he sauntered over to the women. “I'm a tireless musician.” Over his shoulder, he mouthed to Re, “Thank you.”
Within seconds, another bed was occupied.
“Ho' damn!” Samedi declared as he watched Pan in action. “Someone video that shit.”
“I charge for recordings,” Pan called back.
“You're in my house, Greek,” Samedi called back—clearly enjoying the banter. “You want to stay, you play by my rules.”
Pan removed his face from a set of impressive breasts to ask, “What rules are those?”
Samedi frowned. “Shit; I ain't got none. How about a few pictures instead?”
Pan's reply was muffled, but it sounded like assent.
“Yes!” Samedi shouted. “Babaco, get your camera.”
“On it!” Babaco ran off.
“You here for a visit, V?” Brigitte asked as if all that hadn't just happened.
“Hail to the V!” A man called over to us from the dining table.
“Hey, Krim,” I called back as I waved at Kriminel. “How's it hanging?”
“Not at all; it be thick and straight, pointing right at you, Godhunter! You wanna give me a ride instead of Re?”
Trevor started to growl, and Kirill swung his head toward Krim with a dangerous look in his eyes.
“This is their way; it doesn't mean anything,” Azrael said to them. “He's basically saying a friendly hello.”
“Look at dat; the angel be knowin' more dan the beasts,” Samedi said to his wife. “No need for jealousy here.”
“I don't know; I like a jealous man,” Brigitte mused as she looked over my beasts. “Someone to protect a lady's honor. So sexy.”
“I protect your honor,” Samedi huffed.
“When?” Brigitte grimaced. “When you protect me?”
“When...” Samedi's eyes rolled in thought. “When Papa said he wanted to lick rum from your golden pussy, and I told him that if he ever touch you, the only pussy he'd be lickin' would be his own because I'd punch his dick so hard that it'd make him into a woman.”
Re chuckled but then Brigitte glared at him, and he shut up.
“Oh; you so romantic,” Brigitte said caustically. “How lucky I be to have you for a husband; my sweet dick-puncher.”
“Please, boo.” Sam pouted. “You know I'd kill for you; stop your chirpin' and put that mouth to better use.”
Sam pulled Brigitte into a passionate kiss, and when the couple finally parted, they both were smiling. Kirill and Trevor were gaping at them, but I shook my head with a grin. It was kind of adorable once you got past all of the rampant sexuality.
“Can I get you all a drink or something to eat?” Brigitte offered sweetly.
“Pan! Wi! Right dere!”
“Sweetheart, I will wi, wi, wi all the way there,” Pan declared.
“Vhy did I come here?” Kirill asked as he made the mistake of looking up at the ceiling. He blinked, squinted, and then brought his gaze firmly back down. “Vhy?”
“No, thank you; we're fine,” I answered Brigitte for us. “Is there somewhere a little more quiet where we can have a conversation?”
“Sure, sure,” Sam said as he took Brigitte's arm and wrapped it around his. “Come with us.”
The couple sauntered through a doorway and led us down a corridor paneled in dark wood and hung with old photographs. Black and white pictures of serious-faced people progressed into modern, color photographs of smiling men and women. The older ones were only of African Americans and Haitians, but the newer photos included a few Caucasian people. I lifted a brow at Re.
“Their followers,” he said to me. “Prominent members of their human families.”
I transferred my smile from Re to Sam and Brigitte; it was always nice to find gods who truly cared about the people who worshiped them. Brigitte glanced at me over her shoulder and winked a robin's egg-blue eye at me. Then Sam opened a simple wooden door and brought us out onto a wide porch.
Faded wood planks stretched out to a sturdy railing, and rocking chairs were lined up against the house casually. Beyond the railing was a small yard hemmed in by huge trees. Spanish moss hung from the tree branches and mist snaked across the ground. Just beyond the trees, I could see the stark outlines of gravestones, and overhead, a full moon shone brightly.
“Lovely,” I said with a forced smile.
It was lovely; in a backwoods, horror movie kind of way.
Brigitte laughed. “It's our thing, child.” She said “child” more like chial. “We rule the graveyard. This be peaceful for us. When we need a break from all that life”—she waved her hand back at the house—“we come out here to be wit the dead.”
“Now, tell me why you've come,” Sam said as he leaned against the rail. He set his hands atop his cane and cocked his head at Azrael. “Why you think I can help you with your dying friends? You need someone raised from the dead?”
“You can do that?” Azrael asked in surprise.
“If the body is fresh enough.” Sam nodded. “No longer than an hour.”
Azrael's face fell. “It's far past an hour and there are no bodies left, I'm afraid.”
“No bodies?” Sam asked with interest.
“Sam, Azrael's the Angel of Death and his father is Lucifer Morningstar,” I started to explain.
“I knew you felt familiar!” Samedi jerked up and strode over to Azrael. “Brother!” He declared as he gave Azrael a big man-hug. “Welcome again. You should have announced yourself immediately.”
“I'm sorry; I'm not thinking straight,” Azrael murmured; sounding just like his father. “And I'm recently retired.”
“Bullshit,” Sam said. “Death can't retire; we in it for life.” He chuckled at his own joke.
Azrael just stared at him.
“True? You retire?” Sam asked in shock. “Well ain't dat de shit.”
“My friends are demons,” Azrael said. “They were killed while possessing a human.”
“Someone kill dem when they gone for a ride?” Samedi asked in horror. “How dat happen?”
“We're not sure,” I said. “But we've heard about a man who supposedly exorcised the humans u
sing a vial. He forced the demon souls into this vial and then we believe he destroyed them.”
“Like a govi?” Samedi asked with interest. “A soul pot?”
“That's what Odin thought,” I said. “We were hoping you could tell us what a govi could be made of, and if someone's soul be forced into it?”
Samedi frowned pensively and then looked at his wife. Brigitte shook her head.
“I can't see how it be made without the person's permission,” Samedi said. “A pot tet is first created during a vodouisant's initiation. There are things put inside that connect dem to the pot; hair, fingernail clippings—dat sort of thing. It's human belief combined wit the physical link dat give a houngan or mambo power to call a soul into the pot. Without dat, I don't see how it be done; especially not to a demon.”
“Let's say that someone was able to collect a soul without establishing a connection,” Azrael said. “Could a vial be used to house that soul?”
“Anything could be used,” Samedi said. “A soul doesn't have substance like a rock or a bird. It can be infinite or minuscule.”
“They be demons, you say?” Brigitte asked.
“That's right.” Azrael swiveled his head toward her eagerly. “Does that make a difference?”
“We know about Catholic rules, don't we, lover?” She asked Samedi.
Samedi's eyes widened and he smiled. “Dat we do.” He looked at Azrael. “Look to your own laws for the answer, angel.”
“I'm not following.” Azrael frowned.
“What does human belief say 'bout demons?” Brigitte asked. “Specific'ly, what it say about conquering dem?”
Azrael frowned as he thought it over. “Belief in God is supposed to protect you, and enough belief will give you the power to cast out demons; even control them.”
Brigitte smiled at him as if he had answered his own question.
“But that's what exorcists do,” Azrael said. “They cast out demons, and then the demon spirit returns to its body. It's only projecting itself into the human. So, when the priest convinces the human that the demon has been exorcised, the human releases its hold, and the demon goes home.”
“It goes home unless another vessel has been made for it,” Samedi said. “Now, this just be guessin' but I think if someone did make a soul vial and they enchanted it right, when they exorcised a demon they could call it right into that vial. But first, they'd have to cut the cord that binds the demon's body to his soul.”
“Can that be done?” I asked; hoping to hear a no.
“Sure,” Sam said. “All you need is a soul slicer. A harvester. You got one of dem, don't you, Death Angel?”
“The scythe,” Azrael whispered. “And it holds souls too. I don't need a vial to harvest.”
“There you go,” Samedi said. “If you have one, then someone else could too. Maybe the vial is just for show.”
“Thank you, Sam.” Azrael held his hand out to the Baron. “You've been very helpful. If I can ever repay the favor, don't hesitate to call. You can find me at Pride Palace.”
“It ain't no thing; we just talkin',” Sam said as he shook Azrael's hand. “I hope it does help, and I hope you all come back when you're not in such a bad way.”
“We will,” Azrael promised. “We can talk about scythes and top hats.”
Samedi laughed. “I look forward to it.” He looked at the rest of us and said, “But for now; bonjour mes amis.”
“Goodbye, Sam.” I hugged Sam first and then Brigitte. “Goodbye, Brigitte.”
“Goodbye, V,” Brigitte said. Then she turned to Az and blew him a kiss. “Bon chans, sweet angel.”
Azrael bowed respectfully to Brigitte; smiling at her softly. We left the Vodou Gods to their peace and headed back into the house. In the corridor, I grabbed Re's hand.
“You're telling Pan that it's time to go,” I said to him.
“My pleasure,” Re said and started forward.
“No.” I yanked him back. “No pleasure for you; just deliver the message.”
“I have to at least look or I might fall in,” Re said as he kissed my hand and then sped away.
I sighed deeply.
“That's what you get for sleeping with a pervert,” Trevor said.
There was nothing I could say to that; he was absolutely right.
Chapter Nine
“Where's Pan?” Horus asked as soon as we walked into the dining room.
The rest of the God Squad was waiting for us to return; having a meal with some of the Intare. My lions liked to entertain—especially if grilling was involved, there's something about lions and meat—and there was a feast laid out on one of the sideboards. The others looked up at Horus' question; just in time to see me grimace.
“He stayed, didn't he?” Horus shook his head. “I knew I should never have let him go to that house of debauchery.”
“Oh, he's having fun,” Re said as he went to the sideboard and started making himself a plate. “He'll be back in a few hours... or possibly a few days.”
“A few days?” Horus growled. “How could you leave him there alone with those heathens?!”
“Heathens?” Kirill mouthed at Trevor with amusement.
“He's perfectly safe, Horus,” I said gently. “The Gede are into having a good time, not killing their guests.”
“One of them is the first man who ever committed murder,” Horus growled. “His name is literally a misspelling of 'criminal.'”
“That's just the myth,” I said, although I cringed internally. “Krim isn't going to hurt Pan; they all adore him.”
“I'll bet they do,” Horus huffed.
“I'll take you over after I have some lunch, and we can pick him up,” Re offered.
“Thank you,” Horus said stiffly and simmered down.
“Did Samedi give you any leads?” Odin asked as he set Lesya down.
Lesya came toddling over to me with her arms outstretched. I scooped her up and plopped her on my hip automatically.
“I think I'd better take her upstairs first,” I said with a warning look at Azrael; I didn't want Lesya hearing any of this.
Azrael nodded as Lesya pouted and started to whine about staying. I shushed her with a mommy-look and started for the elevator.
“Why can't I stay?” Lesya asked as the elevator whirred softly and we headed up to Samantha and Fallon's suite.
“Because that's grown-up talk and it's too serious for little lion girls,” I said.
“I can be serious,” Lesya said as she scowled at me; giving me her most intimidating look.
It wasn't half-bad for a little girl. I kissed the wrinkle between her brows and smoothed back her thick, ebony hair. It was halfway down her back already; at this rate, she'd have hair like her father by the time she turned two. I knew I should cut it, but I couldn't bear to. I loved how much she resembled Kirill; a little miniature, female version of him. But taking care of that hair on a child as active as Lesya was a pain in the patootie.
“You look very serious,” I said. “But you're still too young.”
“I'm not,” she insisted. “Lions grow fast.”
“Yes, they do.” I sighed; lamenting the baby-time I'd been cheated out of with all of my children—every one of them grew fast. But I comforted myself with the fact that I'd have them forever; that was a fair trade in my opinion. “But growing and experiencing are two different things. You are still a child, and you should enjoy being one for as long as you can.”
Lesya grimaced at me in the way of all children who hear those words. We're so anxious to grow up, and then when we get here, we wish we could go back.
“Come on, Zariel must be missing you,” I said.
Lesya's expression lightened, and she started bouncing—her signal that she wanted to be put down—as we reached her friend's door. I set her on her feet, and she knocked on the door with her tiny fist. It tore at my heart; Lesya was barely over a year old and she stood there like a proper little girl, waiting for her knock to be answere
d. We'd already taken her on her first hunt; a process which made complete sense to my lioness while simultaneously making the human in me wince. I'm an animal lover—always have been—but in order to properly care for the beast inside me, I had to hunt other animals. Circle of life and all that. At least the animals we hunted were ones made from my territory magic so I could console myself that they weren't real.
And no; in case you were wondering, I have never been a vegetarian. I'm a huge hypocrite who loves to eat meat but hates the idea of killing an animal. Gods bless America for making it possible for people like me to enjoy a good steak. But now, it seemed that karma had caught up with me and made me a hunter; at times, a vicious hunter—bloodthirsty even. I pushed that thought away as the door opened, and Zariel smiled brilliantly at my daughter.
“Lesya!” Zariel cried and hugged Lesya as if they hadn't just seen each other that morning.
At four-years-old, Zariel looked as if she were five. She was a stunning child with a wild mane of loose black curls, coffee-colored skin—heavy on the cream thanks to her mother, and her father's amazing hazel eyes. The accelerated lion growth peaked at around three-years but seemed to add just a little extra that kept the child ahead of humans its own age. Human children Zariel and Lesya's ages wouldn't normally make the best playmates, but with Lesya's advancements and Zariel's plateau, it worked out. Well, that and the fact that they were the only children in the Pride. Necessity wasn't just the mother of invention.
Zariel took Lesya's hand and they ran off together; leaving the door open. I followed the beautiful pair of toddlers through a homey apartment done in an eclectic mix of Norse and African décor. There were animal skins laid over tribal rugs, Viking shields hung beside wooden masks, and the heavy wood furniture was upholstered with Kente cloth with accent pillows that had wolves printed on them.
I found Samantha with Fallon at their normal-sized dining table; having a similar meal to what was downstairs. I assumed it had either been brought up for them or Fallon had gone down and made them plates.
“Hey,” I said. “Is this all right?” I waved toward Lesya and Zariel.
“How many times do I have to tell you to just drop her off and run?” Samantha asked with a smile and a shake of her head. “It's fine, V; I'm happy to have someone to entertain Zariel.”