by J. N. Colon
Kara shook her head and walked away, muttering to herself. Now I was left alone with the creep mentally undressing me. He reeked of liquor and cigarettes, and grease coated his hair. He was around six feet tall, and the muscles beneath his t-shirt were no joke. I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of his wrath, and I had a feeling he didn’t discriminate. He’d hit a woman just as easily as he would a man.
I scooted away and sipped the cold beer clutched in my hand.
“What’s your name, sugar?” he asked again.
“Angel,” I answered automatically.
His face lit up. “Angel? Well, I’ll be damned. If that ain’t the perfect name for a little peach like you. You sure do look like an angel, Angel.” His bottom lip snagged between his teeth as his gaze skimmed my body again, nothing good swirling through his drunken mind. “You always act like an angel? Or do you like to”—his calloused finger ran down my arm, spawning goosebumps and not the good kind—“get a little naughty sometimes?”
My burger oozed up my throat again. I stood, putting some distance between that disgusting little finger and me. Clearly, there was a reason I never went to Chickarees.
“Oh, don’t be so skittish, little angel.” Wayland stepped closer. “I’m only kidding.” He winked. “Mostly.”
I placed my beer on a table and rubbed my arms to shield myself. I regretted leaving my t-shirt in the truck. “You should go. Etie will be back and—”
Wayland scoffed. “I saw him go off with Trisha Belmont. They’re probably out back messing around. It ain’t nothing they haven’t done before.”
A fist tightened my chest at the image of them together. It was stupid to feel that way over Etie. I knew the kind of reputation he had. Just because he brought me here, didn’t mean we were together. This wasn’t a date.
“Don’t worry about him.” Wayland’s rotten breath blew over my face. “You and me can go somewhere, and I can take real good care of you, Angel.” His finger ran down my neck, stopping at my collarbone. “I can make you feel real.”
Okay. If this redneck rapist didn’t get away from me, I was going to upchuck on his shirt.
“You really should go.” I spoke through clenched teeth and dug my fingers into my arms. Why couldn’t I have the courage to dump my beer over him?
“That’s not what you really—” Wayland’s words were cut off as he was jerked backed and shoved into the pool table so hard it scooted several inches across the floor.
“I’m pretty sure she wants you to leave.” Etie’s voice was dark and deeper than I’d ever heard. Danger dripped from it, sharp and lethal. He stood next to me, his body tight as a bowstring and every muscle trembling.
Chapter 12
The entire restaurant fell silent, every patron and employee watching the action unfold. This wasn’t the first time Etie got into an altercation at Chickarees.
“Etie,” I whispered, but his eyes remained fixed on Wayland, a hard, perilous edge to them.
Wayland pulled himself together, his mouth twisting into a sneer. “Oh, come on, Etie. You should have known what was going to happen. You can’t leave something as sweet as Angel out here all alone.” He licked his lips. “While you were busy with Trisha, Angel and I were just about to go to my car. She said she was aching to wrap that tight little body—”
My eyes widened at Etie’s speed. He was there one moment and then the next, before Wayland could utter one more foul word, his fist slammed into his face.
A collective gasp rang through the bar, and my own pulse skyrocketed as the two tore into each other. Really, it was a one-sided fight with Etie doing all the hitting. Wayland didn’t stand a chance against the younger guy, even with the bulky muscles roping around his body. Etie was faster and stronger.
He was more dangerous.
Etie grabbed Wayland by the shirt and heaved him off the floor, slamming him on the pool table. The keening of the legs dragging across the wood echoed through the bar. His already bloodied fist struck out again, hitting the drunk’s mouth.
Crimson spurted across the green felt.
Sickness churned my insides. I was both helpless and at fault. I should have dumped my beer on that creep and told him to get lost. Now, Etie was beating him to a pulp, and if he didn’t stop, he might kill Wayland.
I marched toward the brawling guys, grabbing Etie’s thick arm as he reared back for another punch. “That’s enough.”
Fury consumed him. It was stinging and dark, swirling around him like a shadow. It was so palpable it brushed against my skin. My gut twisted. This wasn’t normal. Voodoo was in the air.
Etie’s powers pulsated.
Ignoring me, Etie shook my arm off and punched Wayland in the stomach.
Blood thundered in my ears, drowning out the meaty smacks Etie’s fists created. I had to stop him. Now.
I squeezed in between them as Etie cocked his arm back for another hit. “Stop it, Étienne!” My voice was louder than I thought possible.
The lights flickered overhead while energy crackled in the air. Gasps resonated from the onlookers. Was this the first time someone got in the middle of a fight with Étienne Benoit?
He froze, his eyes wide and so bright they were nearly glowing. His nostrils flared like a wild animal, and tremors shook his body as he tried to contain his fury.
“Get out of my way, Angeline,” he growled, his words barely understandable through his accent.
“No.” My hands pressed against his chest that felt like sheets of thick iron beneath my palms. “You’ve done enough. Let’s go.”
He stepped closer, his face carved out of jagged stone. “He’s had enough when I say…”
His sentence trailed off as the lights above us flickered again, the hum of electricity growing louder. Sparks popped over my skin.
Something changed in him. Some of the tension eased from his body.
After what felt like hours, he finally gave a curt nod. His hands gently landed on my waist as he shifted me away. For a second, I thought he tricked me and was about to continue wailing on the creep.
Instead, his eyes skewered Wayland. “If you so much as look at Angeline again, I won’t just kick your ass. I’ll…” Etie leaned forward and whispered in Wayland’s ear. Color drained from Wayland’s cheeks, turning the splatters of crimson blood even more garish.
Etie stood and wrapped his hand around my arm. Every pair of eyes followed us out the door.
As we walked to his truck, Etie’s body was still so tense it vibrated. He opened the door for me and then stomped to the other side, slamming his shut with enough force to shake the vehicle.
Silence thickened the atmosphere as he glared out the windshield, breathing heavily.
And then the yelling came.
A torrent of French streamed out of Etie’s mouth. He was probably cursing me from hell to high water. His hands gestured wildly as his one blue and one green eye seared into me, fury lashing every syllable of every word.
This went on for about five minutes before I finally spoke. Or yelled.
“I don’t know what the hell you're saying! Stop talking in French!”
Etie halted and blinked, shaking his head. “Why did you let that asshole get so close to you? You should have pushed him away or called for help.”
My mouthed dropped, his words of blame slamming needles into my chest. It didn’t matter that only a few minutes ago I agreed with him. It was my fault. He still didn’t have the right to yell at me.
A fire burned deep in my belly, boiling hot air up through my lungs. “You shouldn’t have left me in the first place.”
His lips twisted in a snarl. “You said you’d be fine!”
“I lied.”
He tossed his hands in the air and uttered a phrase in French. “I’m supposed to know that? I guess I should have known you’d get yourself in trouble the moment I left you alone. You stick out like a sore thumb in a place like this. You don’t got any sense.”
My eyes widened,
and I grabbed the first thing I could find. “Just eat some more candy and shut your damn mouth.” I chucked the hard, fruity candy at him, hitting him square in the forehead with an echoing pop.
We both froze and stared at each other, heavy silence permeating the air. I hadn’t meant to actually hit him much less smack dab in the center of his forehead with such force.
Without warning, peals of laughter exploded out of Etie, filling the truck with the contagious sound.
I crossed my arms against my chest and pressed my lips together, fighting the grin trying to break through. I wanted to be mad, but the more he laughed, the more I couldn’t hold it back.
Finally, I lost the fight and joined him.
“I can’t believe you hit me that hard,” he said, rubbing his forehead.
I winced. “Sorry.”
“Nah, it’s okay. I deserved it.” He gave a wry smile while brushing the dark locks from his face. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you. This wasn’t your fault.” Etie shook his head. “I shouldn’t have left with Trisha.”
I swallowed, fighting the urge to ask if they were or had ever been a thing. By Wayland’s comment, they’d been together before. I hated the sick twisting it gave my gut.
Warm fingers reached over and tilted my chin up until I met those mysterious eyes. “You okay, Angeline?”
Before I could answer, his phone rang. He dropped my chin and pulled it out of his pocket.
“Bastien.” Etie’s face hardened. “You know I don’t like to do that,” he grumbled. After another beat, he sighed. “Fine.” He ended the call and glanced toward me. “I got to run by my house. Is that okay?”
I nodded and bit back the questions bubbling up. When I prodded Etie about his reluctance to do spells earlier this evening, he was ready to skin me alive. Did Bastien need his little brother’s help in the voodoo department? Was that what had the Cajun next to me in a dark, brooding mood again?
Etie slipped out of his kitchen door, stalking toward the woods with stiff shoulders as the night enfolded him in darkness. A fist tightened in my chest once he disappeared. Voodoo seemed so natural to him. It was inside of him, part of him. So why did he dislike it so much?
I turned around and leaned against the door, shoving my hands in my pockets. The inside of Etie’s house was not what I expected. The delicate crystal fixture hanging from the ceiling dusted the kitchen with a soft, golden glow. The space was cozy. It had been recently renovated but kept that old southern country charm with hints of the past.
I licked my lips at the mouthwatering vanilla and honey scent drifting through the air. If his house always smelled this good, I could see why Etie had such a sweet tooth.
My fingers trailed over the quartz counter, the surface cool and smooth beneath my touch. A mixture of candy overflowed out of a large glass blown bowl. Colors of green and blue wove together, reminding me of a certain voodoo caster’s eyes.
The house was quiet. His mother must have been asleep.
What was his mother like? My gaze searched a shelf, landing on a brass frame. The image of a waifish woman with pale blonde hair and light blue eyes was smiling. Her arms were wrapped around two young, rambunctious looking boys. It probably took her an hour to get them still enough for the picture.
Etie was grinning widely, his eyes shining a little too brightly from the camera flash. Bastien was sticking his tongue out. Their mom looked so delicate, but appearances could be deceiving. She must be able to hold her own if she raised those two.
I turned away from the smiling family. Old books and papers scattered across a round, chipped wooden table drew me over. I flipped open an old tome, the words in another language.
But one thing I did recognize was a name. Baron Samedi.
Chills rippled down my spine. These were books on voodoo.
My fingers scooted them around to view their titles, half of which I couldn’t understand. They resembled the book I found in the library.
These were much older. Scarier.
Etie’s handwriting was scrolled across the pages of a notebook. One sentence was circled several times. How to break a deal?
He was doing research on the voodoo king. For me.
Warmth flooded my chest, and I folded into a chair. He was spending a lot more time helping me than I thought.
The backed door opened, and Etie stalked in, a scowl twisting his features. The acrid scent of smoke and herbs drifted around him. Dark, wet splatters marred his t-shirt.
“Is that blood?” If it had been Wayland’s, it would have been dried by now. This was fresh.
His silence was answer enough.
It was blood all right.
He shuffled toward a folding door, opening it to reveal a washer and dryer. The rustling of material sounded, and he lifted his shirt off. My eyes traced the snake tattoo, and I could have sworn it moved.
I blinked and shook my head. I was just tired.
Etie turned around, my eyes still glued to his bare skin. “See something you like, Angeline?”
Heat flooded my cheeks, and my gaze snapped to his face, a smile hitching his lips. “I-uh…” My mouth wouldn’t work. I was helpless, caught in the spell of those glistening, mismatched irises.
“Don’t worry, cher. I see lots of things I like.” He winked.
His words had my heart fluttering.
“Are you going to put a shirt on or stand like that all night?” I motioned toward him. Honestly, I wouldn’t have minded staring at him shirtless for hours. His body was a work of art.
His only answer was a smirk before he snatched a t-shirt out of a clothes basket.
I opened one of the books, this one in English. “Are all of these about voodoo?” I asked, reading a paragraph describing the importance of balance.
The chair next to me was pulled out, and Etie’s body folded down. He handed me a bottle of water and opened one for himself. “Most of them.” He slid the notebook closer, studying the notes. “I was researching Baron Samedi.”
“Why is he called the voodoo king?” I asked. “Is he different than the other loa?”
A shadow crossed Etie’s face. “There are a few groups in voodoo that hold Baron Samedi higher than the other loa. They refer to him as their king. The voodoo king.” His fingers tightened around the water bottle, and for a second, I thought he was going to crush it. “One such group is called Louange le Noir. They practice the darkest of voodoo and have no regard for balance. They are chaos and nothing else.”
Ghostly fingers tickled across my skin. I wouldn’t want to meet the type of voodoo practitioner who solely praised Baron Samedi. And from the murderous expression Etie was wearing, I was right to avoid them.
I motioned toward his notebook. “Any luck on finding out how to break this deal?”
His noncommittal shrug didn’t fill me with confidence. “Not a lot of people have broken deals with any voodoo loa especially Baron Samedi.”
Hope was slowly dwindling and becoming a nonexistent thing. “Is it possible, or is all this just a big waste of time? Am I going to end up losing my soul to the voodoo king?”
Etie’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing. “I wouldn’t be doing this if there wasn’t a possibility.”
I swallowed hard and fought the urge to shrink under his intense gaze. At least he was saying there was a chance. We just had to find it. “Okay.” I tapped a book. “Can I help?”
He regarded me for a few moments before sliding over a small stack. “These are in English.”
I grabbed them. “What are the other ones in? Vondou?”
Etie opened one and began flipping through the pages. “Some. This one is Haitian Creole. Those over there are French.”
My brow arched. “How many languages can you speak?”
A smile tugged at his lips. “A few.”
And here I thought being bilingual with English and Spanish was good. Apparently, this voodoo caster was a multi-lingual genius.
I flipped through the pages of the fi
rst book, skimming over the words. I glanced up a few times, covertly watching Etie from beneath my lashes. Lines creased his forehead as he read, his lips sometimes forming the words. He brushed those deep brown locks from his face a few times, the stubborn strands falling back.
It was hard to concentrate with him next to me. I was pretty sure he’d scooted closer. Our knees were touching. His herbal scent flooded my senses, and it took everything I had not to lean over and bury my face in the crook of his neck.
I shook myself, shattering the images that had popped into my mind.
Us kissing.
I closed the book in front of me and grabbed another. My head tilted as I read the unexpected title. Hiding A Witch: Power Binds & Cloaking Magic. “Do you have this because of what happened at Dumarsais? Because he sensed the baron had used witchcraft instead of voodoo?”
Etie’s face was a mask. “Yes.”
“Did you find anything?” I prodded.
His gaze remained on the book he had open. “Not really. All of those spells seem too tame and amateurish for whatever the baron did.”
My lips pursed, and I slid the book away, reaching for another voodoo one. I still didn’t understand why the king of voodoo needed to use witchcraft.
Silence stretched around us, broken by the rustling of flipping pages. I had no idea what I was doing, but I was determined to help. Plus, sitting next to Etie wasn’t unpleasant.
I turned a page, my skin puckering at the black and white sketch of a man holding his arms wide in a cemetery. Hands were bursting out of a grave as if a corpse was trying to crawl out. The passage below described a powerful voodoo caster called a bokor. One of his many talents was the ability to raise the dead.
I shivered as I pictured bodies crawling up from the Carrefour Cemetery.
“Are bokors real?” I pointed to the sketch.
Etie’s gaze flicked up, slowly darkening. “Yes.”
His expression was warning me off the subject, but my mouth reacted before my brain. “What else can they do besides raise the dead?”
“Lots of things.” The air in the room dropped, matching his icy tone.