by Russ Linton
I’d come to ask a favor, not get into any of this Samedi was going on about. These people needed religion? Hadn’t they got their fill? I wasn’t their god. I sure as hell wasn’t their savior.
I took the wafer but I didn’t kneel. The priest started to object but I stepped up on the dais beside him and he fell back, unsure how to react.
“I came to ask a favor,” I announced. “I didn’t come for religion.”
Francisco had already received his holy rites and stood nearby. “Not right now, Ace. After the service.”
I stared at the thin crust between my fingers. Waiting, that had been going on too long. I wasn’t these people’s savior, but I knew someone who was. He’d been dogging me since Fenwick. Saved me? Sure, only to be beat down again and again. But maybe that’s where my salvation was. In the fight. In the battle. Maybe that’s where theirs was too.
I ground that wafer into dust.
The friar’s eyes bulged and he stumbled away, making the sign of the cross. The crowd gasped. We were all about to find religion up in this church of bartered souls.
“You’ve come here because you wanted your freedom. To get that freedom, you swore an oath to a god you may or may not believe in.” A murmur went through the crowd, but I kept on. “That’s all good. But I look out there and I see people still following their own traditions. People keeping the faith of their culture. You’ve sacrificed so much for a life that should be your’s to own outright. No lease. No favors.”
“You can’t disrupt the Holy Communion!” The friar had finally found a voice outside the proscribed chants. “If you are not one with us in the Spirit, I must insist you leave!”
I couldn’t keep down an acid chuckle. I was feeling the change. A transformation. A hunter stalked my soul from the shadows, ready to make his presence known.
“Look around the room, Friar Tuck. Which one of us isn’t one with these people?”
Francisco came up and placed an arm around the friar who staggered like he’d just been slapped. “Ace, many of us were Catholic even before we came to the New World. We chose this.”
“But some of us,” Sarjo said proudly, “remember the old traditions.” Heads around the room began to nod.
“Traditions.” I’d begun to pace around the dais, the little altar boy’s brown eyes following with sheer amazement. “And what of these traditions?” I asked, my voice dropping an octave and shredding into a heavy rasp. “What of Legba, Ellegua, Eshu, Exu, Nbumba Nzila?” With every new name, the priest’s eyes grew wider, palms creeping up to cover his ears. “What of the Devil?” A murmur went through the drafty church. A child giggled in the upper loft.
I stalked toward Sarjo, draggin’ deep across that sandy floor. “What of Kibaga?”
Sarjo, the whole congregation, flinched like they’d been struck with a blast of cold air. Atofo didn’t react, but he’d already frozen, his jaw slack. In the shifting temperature, a brilliant warmth rested on my chest. One I’d brought inside from a rising sun.
The candelabra flickered. Shadows curled along the walls like living beasts and jumped off, latching onto my back until they draped the altar into pure darkness.
The friar dropped, his quaking knees unable to support him. Francisco let him hit the ground. He’d lost his own swagger and stood in awe as Kibaga’s power rippled off my shoulders, my white coat a glowing star in the undeniable blackness. They all stared, their attention rapt, unwavering.
“I came to ask a favor,” I said in that terrifying but hopeful voice, “but instead, I make a demand. You will go to battle with me tonight. We will storm the walls of the fortress which has never fallen. We will glide over the ramparts like smoke and we will crush the enemy within. Only then will you come home. Only once I’ve restored balance. Do you understand?”
The silence finally broke. Sarjo stepped forward even as Atofo tried to hold her back. For the first time, I saw the fear he’d inspired in me reflected in his face.
“Yes, Kibaga,” she said. “We will help you get vengeance. For you. For all of us.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I offered to let Atofo drive. He just shook his head and stared. He kept throwing awkward glances my way from the passenger seat as we drove to the Fountain of Youth Park to get Araceli.
“What?” I demanded. I wasn’t in the mood for his cruddy jokes. A ferocious warrior spirit had signed the lease on my person. Even after we left Fort Mose and stepped back into This World, that angry presence lingered.
“Oh, nothing,” he said abruptly and faced forward.
I’d gotten a few swigs of this power before. I knew Kibaga had a dark side. When he hit, he felt like a barely restrained force inside my body, my mind. I didn’t know which of us was in control.
Timucuan war chants, I could give in to. Like a drug, they set you draggin’ and gave the urge to draw blood. Kibaga felt different. He wanted you to feel the sting of every blow. He wanted you to know the exact moment he abandoned you too.
This was the longest time I’d ridden with him. It let me understand his fury, his pain. What he wanted, I didn’t know. I couldn’t tell his colors. Did he serve the Crossroads Devil? Any of those other spirits? Was he the one guiding them? The world he’d set loose inside me was mysteries wrapped up in riddles.
It’s whatever. I cared about the battle. One thing I did know Kibaga wanted was war. I would give him that and then some. I fed that urge in him, riding the edge where I might lose myself. Power. I needed as much as my broken body would let inside.
I leaned hard on the accelerator. A current of shadow became our banner. It fluttered from Bubonic’s windows like the feathers on a spear shaft. Like a warning flag in a hurricane. We barreled down Cordova a category five disaster on approach to our landfall at the Castillo. Streetlamps shimmered as we passed. The flood of darkness washed from curb to curb on a rolling wave.
Bubonic had the look of a battle-scarred steed. Windshield still splintered, front end bashed in on one side, a one-eyed lantern lit our way. But that didn’t matter. Through Kibaga, I had perfect vision. I was darkness and it was me. Energies flowed through my veins and filled the forgotten, battered insides of my lungs.
I had to exercise my will to veer off target and stop for Araceli. I felt thankful again for Atofo’s crazy mentorship. No formal schooling would’ve taught me how to control a restless, angry spirit. Living with him had. We bounced into the Fountain of Youth lot and I skidded to a stop.
“Go get her.”
Atofo didn’t ask for an explanation. He jumped out in such a hurry he left the door open. A few pauses to run backward and stare at the spectacle surrounding Bubonic, then he broke into a sprint and cleared the fence with a deft leap.
Seemed like he was gone too long. Time kept stretching and I squeezed the wheel impatiently, my foot feathering the accelerator. I reached inside my coat and pulled out Caleb’s employee ID. Kibaga wanted his vengeance, sure enough, but I wanted my friend out. Safe. Kitterling too, if I had to admit it.
In my head, the worst case scenario went like this — I died, Kibaga brought me back. If I had to, I’d do my own vulture lope like I’d brought back my fellow inmate, 313. Crazy? Sure. But what else did we have?
But he had another plan. This Kibaga was savage. He carried a grudge I understood on an instinctual level. And was fighting to take the wheel completely.
Raze the fort to the bare earth. Only if your friends survive will they be worthy. Only if you survive, will you be worthy.
Most other spirit world negotiations were a crazy diplomacy I didn’t understand. Kibaga, we were kindred spirits. His code could’ve come from the streets back home. Convincing him required a display of strength. Respect got earned through victory. And that included one over him.
“Just stay out of my way. I’ll get mine and you’ll get yours.”
You believe you are stronger than me? Without my strength, you’d already be dead.
“Without me, you go back to your shadows an
d only dream about winning battles.”
The threat seemed to silence him. It silenced me too. It’d been days since my cancer clock had been reset. I’d worked some serious mojo in the time being. Under the influence of Kibaga, I felt good, but who’s to say I wouldn’t drop dead the minute he left?
“No. After you.” I heard Atofo insist.
Araceli hung on the passenger’s door, peering inside. Her eyes were fixed on my chest.
“Deu meu!” she breathed.
Maybe it was her stare. Maybe it was her airy Catalan curse. But that’s when I noticed I wasn’t breathing. I shook off the glazed concentration and looked down.
My lungs weren’t struggling because they weren’t there. Or they were no longer needed. Tendrils of shadow rippled from my chest, soft and wispy like the blades of a feather. They covered the golden breastplate like half-closed blinds flapping in a steady breeze.
I remembered the scooped out cavities I’d seen in Ida’s mirror and on my spirit form in the SHU. My swagger shriveled. Kibaga laughed, taking pleasure in the sudden weakness. I started to panic.
“What’s happening to me?”
Araceli flipped her goggles down and moved in like a paramedic while Atofo paced outside, grumbling.
“This energy isn’t just a force you’ve channeled. This is a patron taking root,” she said. She flipped the goggles up and looked at me, severe, demanding that I listen. “Ace, this isn’t a power you can use, it is one that will consume you.”
“But my faith, you said I found my faith in that battle on the old plantation behind Fenwick Hall, the place where I first met this Kibaga.”
Her face pinched and I saw tears threaten her fierce eyes. “Faith can require a terrible price too.”
“No, I got this,” I said through clenched teeth. “I need this. For Caleb. This kind of power...I think...I think I can redirect it to feed the ritual. No sacrifice. No blood.”
“Ace, listen to me.” She was oddly calm, no lectures. “This power is latching onto a gap in your spirit. Damage that was already there.” She shot an accusatory glance at Atofo.
Atofo continued to pace outside the hearse. “I told her it wouldn’t work,” he moaned. “I told her!”
Whatever the big native was going on about had my attention. I got out of the hearse, too confining, too heavy of an atmosphere. I wanted to be in the open air. I wanted to look Atofo in the eye.
“You told who?” I demanded. “Definitely not me. You haven’t told me shit.”
“I did it to keep you alive,” he cried. “It’s what you came to me all drunk and blubbering about! You should be thankful! Your lungs were bad so I...I took them.”
“You did what?”
“I took them.” He said making wild motions with his hands like he was scooping ice cream. “Not your meat lungs, your spirit breath. When they try to regrow, I suck them back out.”
“I need those, Atofo,” I shouted, coming around the front of Bubonic. “Don’t I?” I asked Araceli. She’d slid out after me and kept staring.
“They’re defective,” he said. “We put them in a safe place to keep you alive.”
“Where? Where the hell are my spirit lungs or whatever?”
He looked away and scratched at his topknot under the conical hat he wore. “The Deer Woman has them.”
Araceli stared at the asphalt, tugging at her lip. Unlike her not to have something to add. Curses or a cruddy told you so, I’d take anything. Her learning might’ve been helpful, but I could piece together the clues.
Evens had called me a zombie when we met, said my soul had been put in a jar somewhere. I’d be under that person’s control. The Deer Woman?
But it hadn’t worked like she wanted. Something had been off about the ritual she and Atofo cooked up. Nobody owned me. She knew because I’d been granted boons by other spirits. That’s why she kept checking in to see whose team I was on, to see if the magic had taken hold.
“Why, Atofo?” I asked. Kibaga still raged inside but my brain had dropped into neutral, muting his voice. “Why would you do me like that?”
“Why? You try living in the dirt tread on by all those funnel-cake-eating pale faces, some bullshit story about how they dug up your corpse playing over and over and over again on an eternal loop! I had to get out! Be with my people!” He was shouting, making wild gestures to the sky. “But no! The Deer Woman had already banished me because of the little misunderstanding with some god damn missionaries.” He turned in the general direction of Fort Mose. “Sarjo, you hear me!?! I wish I’d never met your beautiful brown ass!”
He was raging, face all splotchy and neck veins bulging. “Forget you and your pasty god pinned to his trees! I’d puke up all those wafers if I could! That’s right! Spit them out and grind them into the dust.” His wild eyes met mine and inner demon or not, I had to back down. He came at me and clapped my shoulder, hard. “That’s right! Reject your ways! Like my boy here! Kibaga...Eubaga...Kibace...whatever the hell he has become!” He was hopping on the balls of his feet, the colonial soldier outfit jangling and open pant legs flapping. Hyped. Fierce and deadly. I recognized the onset of a war trance. “Wooooo! Fuck yeah! Let’s go kill some fucking Spaniards!”
I glanced to Araceli for backup. She hadn’t moved, even with Atofo’s freak out. Her response was slow and cautious.
“He’s right, Ace. Get in the car. We need to get to the Castillo. Midnight’s almost here.”
She’d gone too quiet. Accepted all this too fast. But I could follow her thoughts. Getting Caleb free was at the top of her list. I wasn’t going to argue.
I took a deep breath I didn’t need. Kibaga hadn’t taken over, not yet. This assault on the Castillo would give me a chance to test his strength. If he couldn’t help with Caleb, damn straight I’d kick his ass to the curb. If he could? I’d owe him, no doubt. But my soul wasn’t on the bargaining table.
When we got back inside, Bubonic’s grim atmosphere felt like home. Atofo sat with one arm hanging out the open window hammering a drum beat against our ride’s flank. I continued to bleed shadow, power raging inside. Araceli had gone quiet.
“You’ve got the book?” I asked her. She turned an empty gaze my way, pressed it there until she’d left a mark, and went back to staring out the windshield. Okay then. “The ritual? How does this go down?”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I can make it happen. I found another way. All you need to do is keep the soldiers off me.”
I had about five minutes to get her head on straight. We needed to go into this as a team. I dug out Caleb’s badge and handed it to her. A reminder of what this was about. She took it and gave his photo a half smile. A few beats and she asked, “What about Kitterling’s item?”
I smiled. “You let me worry about Kitterling. I’ve got him covered.”
She glanced at Caleb’s badge again and sighed then reached into her satchel. Araceli gave me a wary look then handed Atofo something.
He gasped. She’d handed him his knife. The ritual blade I’d used so often was back in one piece. A silvery band welded the two broken halves together like a moonlit river at the bottom of a canyon.
“My knife!” he said. He swiped at the air over the dash. “How? Should’ve taken a Two Spirits and meteor strike to put it back together!”
Araceli went back to looking at Caleb’s badge, a smile threatening the corners of her mouth. “Alchemy. When you don’t trust in spirits, anything is possible.”
Atofo took her explanation with a frown, trying to match her attitude. “Whatever you say, but we’re about to be ass deep in spirits.”
She looked first at the undead shaman then the dude driving, spilling mystical darkness from his chest.
“I’m aware.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Midnight, the parking lot of the Castillo and the streets nearby were dead. We rolled up on a carpet of darkness, streetlamps winking out as we passed, shadow scouring the buildings like a wave of ink. The closer we
got, the more pressure Kibaga put on.
Other voices had started up as well. I recognized some from Fort Mose. Captain Francisco called from far off. He was assembling his troops, his shouts ringing off the darkened buildings and empty alleys. I saw nothing every time I looked. Nobody else in the hearse reacted. It would be just like Kibaga to send me to war with an imaginary army.
We scanned the fort from the back of the lot. The sense of history deepened without the crowds. Floodlights lit the walls from the dry moat, the battlements fading into the night sky. Flags rippled and snapped. I could hear water lapping out in the bay and the lonely cry of a seagull.
Atofo rolled out special forces style and crept across the parking lot with his knife in his teeth. Araceli and I got out, exchanged a glance, and went to Bubonic’s front bumper. I crossed my arms and leaned against the hood.
Any other time, we might’ve planned this entry before we parked. The gatehouse was closed. That detached structure sat in front of the Castillo like a wedge-shaped island, a checkpoint between two spans. Unattended, it was just a quick hop and a stroll onto the bridge and the main gate. But the shut portcullis into the courtyard created a problem.
“We busting in through the gate or going over the walls?”
“Over the walls.” She checked her bandoleer. “I could go through the gate but we’d likely set off alarms.”
Another seagull...no Atofo...called from where he crouched behind the low wall surrounding the outer sidewalk.
“What the hell is he doing?” I asked. My internal struggle with Kibaga was wearing any patience thin. Not that I ever had much for Atofo.
We heard voices on the walls of the Castillo. Or at least, I did. Shapes were moving up there but the intense floodlights had wrecked Kibaga’s gift of sight. I came off the hood and turned an ear to the battlements.