by J. N. Colon
I regarded the oldest, a distant relative named Ferdinand. His dark eyes were like black holes waiting to suck me in.
A shiver skittered up my back as I quickly passed by.
A picture of my father hung proudly right before the stairs, his lips tilted in that familiar half smile.
“Hola, Papa.” I waved in his direction as I did every day, studying his sharp, proud features and waves of midnight hair.
“Evangeline!”
“I’m right here,” I said to Abuela’s waiting form at the bottom of the open staircase. Once she caught sight of me, she marched off, waving that wooden spoon.
The scent of cooking food filtered through the spacious living room, bright rays of sunlight glinting off the dark wood floors and white furniture. By the time I made it into the large chef’s kitchen, several plates were already stacked behind the island.
Geez. Was she feeding an army instead of two girls and herself? Steam drifted from a mountain of fluffy scrambled eggs topped with melting cheese. The stack of buttered toast reached my chin, and two towers of French toast teetered ominously. A pile of bacon glistened under the lights.
My grandmother tucked a stray black hair back into her low bun before pushing a plate at me. “Toma, niña. Eat.”
I grabbed it and spooned some eggs and bacon onto my plate, taking a seat at the island.
Her brow furrowed, and her dark chocolate eyes skewered me. “Come, por favor.” She pointed at my plate with her spoon. “That’s nothing. Get some more.”
“This is fine.”
I didn’t have an eating disorder. I ate plenty, but never as much as everyone else. I was born with a stomach the size of a golf ball. Most people would have envied that.
Not so much in this family. Food was paramount. If you didn’t eat like it was your last meal, you either didn’t like the food—never dislike a Puerto Rican woman’s food—or you were sick. Checking my forehead for a fever used to be an everyday event.
With Abuela’s rounded hips and ample bosom—her words, not mine—and Marisol’s curves, I looked like a pre-pubescent boy compared to them sans the peach fuzz and squeaky voice. Even my mother, the petite Irish-American gringo with a waspy waistline, had jugs better than mine.
“Pero, you’re so skinny.” She reached over and pinched my thin arm. “Por favor, Evangeline. Please.”
A sigh drifted out of my mouth as I reluctantly grabbed a piece of toast and more bacon.
“Gracias.” A smile curled her lips, deepening the light crinkles around her eyes. Two stylish streaks of silver framing her face was the only gray on her head. Her clothes showed off her figure, too. No moomoos for Milagro De la Mora. Today she wore a pair of linen pants and a soft lilac blouse.
Her fingers gently cupped my chin. “Your father would be so proud.”
I scoffed and stabbed the eggs with a fork. “I’m sure he’s real proud I’m eating toast.” Cristóbal De la Mora was easily impressed then.
Abuela clucked her teeth. “He would be proud of the good girl you are. You always listen, even when you don’t want to.”
What choice did I have?
I averted my eyes to my barely touched food, my stomach tightening. After my father died in a car accident when I was eight, Abuela moved in. I slept in Marisol’s room for three months, both of us crying ourselves to sleep most nights. It was then that I vowed to never lose another person I loved again.
That very thing almost happened two years later. Almost.
A glass of orange juice was placed beside me, my gaze watching the orange liquid rippling back and forth.
My grandmother tapped the wooden spoon against my plate. “Eat, Evangeline. Por favor.”
I stifled the urge to roll my eyes and tore off a piece of bacon. The salty meat popped with flavor on my tongue.
My grandmother scoffed dramatically. “Diablo just left hell. Hide your gatos y perros.”
My sister trailed into the kitchen, her raven hair tousled and eyes half-lidded as if she just rolled out of bed. She probably did, and she still looked hot. Marisol was the epitome of a sexy senorita with tanned skin, sultry features, and luscious curves.
Everything I was not.
“Oh please,” she said through a yawn. “I don’t sacrifice cats and dogs.” She reached over and grabbed a plate. “Only chickens and little piggies. At least today.” She piled her plate high, brightening Abuela’s smile.
Why Marisol was allowed to go to Tulane while I had to apply to the community college was beyond me. I had the grades, and we had the money. The only thing stopping me was the night I overheard my grandmother crying while speaking out loud to my father. She expressed her worry about me leaving home. There had never been so much fear in her voice.
“That’s all you’re eating, Flaca?” Marisol’s words yanked me back to the present.
I kicked her leg. “Don’t call me that.” I hated that nickname even if it was sort of accurate. Having skinny as your nickname in any language wasn’t exactly flattering. “This is plenty enough for me.”
Marisol scoffed and reached over, trying to smack my chest. “Maybe if you ate a little more, you might grow some bigger tetas.”
I dodged her hit and shoved her hand away. “My tetas are just fine.” I wasn’t about to admit my boob envy to her.
Abuela smacked Marisol’s arm with the wooden spoon. “Don’t pick on your sister.”
While she was still recovering from the scolding, I leaned over. “At least wearing tight clothes doesn’t make me look like a slut.”
She gasped loudly. “Did you hear that, Abuela? Angel just called me a slut.”
My grandmother winced dramatically. “Well, if the shoe fits…”
Marisol’s jaw dropped. “Abuela! Unbelievable.” She tossed a piece of bacon at me, fighting a smile. “Just wait. I bet there’s a Lolita hiding inside this little muñeca.”
My grandmother passed by, patting my head and then Marisol’s. “Quizás. Maybe she’ll meet a handsome niño this summer.” She disappeared around the corner.
I scoffed and returned to picking apart my toast. “Doubtful.”
Marisol nudged me. “No one in Carrefour is good enough for my Flaca.”
I stuck my tongue out. “You’ve ruined them all.”
She shot me a half-hearted scowl. “Cute.”
“What are your plans today?” I asked, moving the eggs around my plate.
“I don’t know.” Marisol examined her arms and then her nails. “I’ll work on my tan out by the pool and then maybe I’ll get a mani-pedi.” She flashed a smile. “Want to come?”
I shook my head. “I’m supposed to volunteer at the library today.”
She scoffed. “Why would you want to spend your summer in that dungeon when you’re not even getting paid for it?”
My eyes remained on my plate. “I want to do some research.”
“School’s over.” The scent of maple filled the air as she drowned a stack of French toast in syrup. “What could you possibly have to research?”
“Lots of things.” One thing in particular, how to break a deal with a supernatural voodoo creature.
Chapter 2
My stomach clenched as my fingers drifted to the last book, the search for answers coming up short. I slumped against the metal shelf and groaned. I was never going to find that book again. It was as if it poofed into thin air.
When I was ten, I found the small tattered collection of voodoo folklore lying on the floor in the children’s section of the Carrefour Public Library. It was opened to a page on Papa Legba, a voodoo spirit who supposedly granted wishes.
Papa Legba wasn’t who answered my call that night.
A shiver skipped down my back as I pictured that tall top hat askew on his dark ebony head, his face painted white and lips curled in a foreboding smile. Long coattails trailed the ground, and the scent of rum and cigar smoke choked the air.
I shook off the images that haunted my dreams. I’d taken a job vol
unteering at the library a few months ago in hopes of finding that book. It got me in this situation. It had to have the answers to get me out.
You’d think I’d be able to find help on the Internet. You’d be wrong. Most of the information on the web was contradictory or plain crap.
The squeak of a rickety cart echoed, alerting the presence of Mrs. Thornberry, the ancient librarian. She was almost ninety years old and barely remembered the Dewey Decimal System.
“Angel,” she called, her voice wispy and dry with age.
“I’m right here.” I scurried up the aisle to meet her. She could break a hip pushing that heavy thing. “I told you to let me get those.”
She flicked a weathered mocha hand in the air. “I thought I’d bring them to you.” Her white hair was twisted into a bun while gold-rimmed glasses hung off the edge of her slender nose. “You can put them up.”
“Of course.” I gently took the cart from her. “I’m sure someone will be at the front needing help checking out soon.”
Her frail body slowly turned, a grimace stretching over her face.
“Do you need some—?”
She clucked her teeth—or dentures. “I’m old, child, not dead. I can make it on my own.”
I staunched the urge to trail after her. Instead, I wheeled the squeaky cart down another long row.
My gaze lingered out of the window, watching people on the street. Rosie Dallas scurried after her three-year-old. The babysitter must have bailed again. The Pepto pink dress uniform from Bernie’s Diner hugged her curvy form. Better tips.
Max Morgan—one of Marisol’s ex-boyfriends—strolled down the sidewalk, his black hair messy and sunglasses covering half of his handsome face. He flashed a smile at a group of girls from school. Each one of them erupted in giggles.
I rolled my eyes. He was a smooth talker, if there ever was one. He had my mother eating out of his hand from the moment they met. She wouldn’t have been so googly-eyed had she known how many times Max had snuck into Marisol’s room.
A tingle trickled down my spine as my eyes landed on a black truck pulling up in front of Mike’s Hardware. My stomach tightened.
There was nothing out of the ordinary about the vehicle. Hardware stores and trucks went hand in hand.
When the doors opened, and two people stepped out, I understood the eerie sensations my body was experiencing.
The Benoit brothers.
My pulse jumped at the sight of them. People moved out of their way, some turning heel and scurrying in the opposite direction.
I’d never had any contact with Étienne or Bastien Benoit, and we’d never officially met, but I knew things about them. Everyone knew things about them.
Bastien, the oldest at twenty-one, leaned against the truck as he tied his chin-length dirty blond locks into a ponytail at the base of his neck. He made the simple gesture look sensual, his lips curling into a crocodile smile as two brave women scampered by. Neither of them could keep their eyes off him.
Smirking at their obvious appreciation, he withdrew a cigarette. He had been the slimmer brother smoking on the porch. That meant Étienne had been the one that lingered, drilling me with his eyes…
Air clogged my throat.
Étienne Benoit leaned against the front of the truck, his gaze cast in my direction as if he could see me through the tinted window. Chills broke across my skin, and my pulse trembled as it had this morning.
I ducked back against the wall despite common sense. He couldn’t see me. When I peeked back, Étienne was still glaring.
Impossible.
I pressed my hands against the glass and studied his wide, muscular frame and tapered waist. Unlike his older brother, Étienne’s hair was a deep rich brown, like fresh soil that draped over his forehead and curled around his ears. It had a wild, tousled look, as if he’d just rolled out of bed—probably with a girl. The youngest Benoit was only nineteen, but he was no stranger to the opposite sex. At least that was what I’d heard.
“Who’re we spying on?”
The unexpected voice made me jump, and I banged my forehead against the window. I rubbed it and glanced over my shoulder. Hyacinth Unrue peered onto the street behind me, the heavy scent of flowery perfume clouding the air. That should have tipped me off.
“Oh, them Benoits,” she said, rubbing her hands together, oblivious to the head slam she caused. “Plenty nice to look at but trouble from the T to the E.” She nodded more to herself than me, shifting her frizzy tufts of orange hair. Most people likened her to a cheese puff.
Ms. Unrue had become Carrefour’s very own gossip queen, a title she took seriously. A day couldn’t go by without a good rumor to spread. The fifty-year-old had nothing better to do after her husband ran off ten years ago with a woman half his age. She had no children to annoy, just one very spoiled and neurotic pug.
Marisol was a repeat subject of town talk from what she wore to who she was hanging out with. I, on the other hand, wasn’t gossip material.
By this point, Étienne had lost interest in the window and stalked into the hardware store with his brother sauntering behind.
“You know the Leroux mansion on Dumont?” Ms. Unrue asked, tearing me away from the street outside.
“Yep.” It wasn’t far from my own house.
Her blue eyes lit up in her chubby face. “Mayor Deveraux finally convinced that lazy, cheapskate grandson of Marshall Leroux—may his soul rest in peace—to pay for renovations.”
I returned to re-shelving books. “Oh really?” I asked absentmindedly. “How’d he manage that?”
“I heard it was those boys.” She jabbed a fat finger at the window. “Mayor Deveraux paid them to do a spell.”
I scoffed. “You can’t be serious.”
She popped her hands on her rounded hips, scrunching up the massive flowers on her blouse. “How else do you think Phillip Leroux finally ponied up the cash to fix that rundown place?”
Anytime anything unexpected happened, the Benoits were involved. Them and their voodoo. It was impossible to know what was true. Could they really cast voodoo spells, or was it all a part of their dark, mysterious personas?
“That’s the only explanation, Angel,” Ms. Unrue continued. “We all know what those boys do back in that swamp.”
Did we?
She clapped her hands together, startling me away from the eerie memories of this morning. “I almost forgot. I had a book delivered here because that hateful mailman would have left it out in the rain.” She patted my shoulder. “Be a dear and get it.”
I swallowed the desire to roll my eyes. Hopefully, she’d bother someone else with her gossip once she got what she came for. “I’ll ask Ms. Thornberry where it is.”
She waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Already did. It’s in the basement.”
My head snapped back. “Why is it in the basement?”
Ms. Unrue gave a noncommittal shrug.
With a sigh, I deposited the books in my hand on the cart and spun around, heading for the door in the back that was rarely opened.
The stairs creaked as I trailed into darkness, using the flashlight on my phone to dispel the thick shadows. It wasn’t working very well.
The basement housed a bunch of grimy old books Ms. Thornberry deemed inappropriate. Twilight and The Great Gatsby shared a shelf. It was the first place I searched for Voodoo Myths & Spirits, coming up with nothing more than dust bunnies.
Once I reached the bottom, my fingers skimmed across the wall for the light switch. If I found a furry spider instead, no one was going to be safe from my screaming. Thankfully the hard plastic met my skin, and dim light spilled across the cluttered basement.
My jean shorts rubbed against a stack of weathered boxes, my nose crinkling at the tiny dust cyclone the movement created. I’d be sneezing up a storm if I had bad allergies. The line of metal file cabinets holding old newspapers was cold against my arm as I peeked around them, searching for a package from the post office. It couldn’t be
hard to miss. It would be the only thing not covered in layers of dirt and grime.
I opened one of the drawers, particles flying into my face. Coughing wracked my lungs as they tried to dispel the crapload of crap I just breathed in.
Not doing that again.
My hand waved through the air, blowing the space around me clean. Once I quit hacking, I wiped the moisture from my eyes with the back of my hand. Scuffling echoed from the far reaches of the basement.
I froze, holding my breath.
Something fell over. That was all.
I swallowed past the lump in my throat while ignoring the tingles rippling across my skin. A gust of cool air melted over my shoulders, and I rubbed my arms to chase away the goosebumps. The Carrefour Public Library wasn’t a place you’d need a sweater, especially in the summer. The AC was always on the fritz and the reason a dozen fans were collecting dust down here.
A white package with a large USPS label finally appeared on top of an old metal cart missing one wheel. A breath of relief exited my lips as I marched over, snatching it. I spun around just in time to catch an eerie shadow stretching across the back wall.
My muscles went limp, and the package fell from my hand with a loud thump. A cloud of dust swirled around my legs.
The shadow shifted, revealing the outline of a man… a man wearing a top hat.
My sharp intake of air echoed through the basement.
The image of Baron Samedi flashed through my mind. Smoke drifted between his white teeth while eyes blacker than coal bored into me. His tall top hat shined even without the moonlight.
My pulse skyrocketed to dangerous levels. I was going to have a heart attack before I even made it to my eighteenth birthday. Cold sweat trickled down my nape as my breath came in short, ragged pants.
A hollow rattle resonated, and I pictured sunbaked bones colliding together.