All for a Rose (39 page)

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Preview of
BLUE VOODOO
, book two in the Hidden Kingdom series

Chapter One

“I can’t believe you put your faith in this swamp witch.”

The butler’s censure fell over Dominique like an upended drawer of cooking knives, sharp tones cutting and brash. It wasn’t the first comment he’d made during her short visit, nor did she think it would be his last. Unacceptable, considering he had never been invited to witness this meeting in the first place.
Breathe.
Dominique didn’t look at the butler, didn’t give him the satisfaction of reacting at all. Instead, she picked up the small pouch of soot set out amongst her other ingredients on the stone floor beside her. Singing under her breath to the
loa,
Agwe, she added the soot to a hollowed pumpkin gourd, letting it drift down to join the powdered lizard, red precipitate, and the soil she’d gathered this morning from a local crossroad.

The warm caress of her power hummed through her fingertips, infusing the concoction with the energy of the
loa
, the mystical messengers that bridged the void between humans and the great god Bondye. The sensation was as familiar and soothing to her as her own heartbeat. Energy built, spreading outward in ever growing circles, filling the room with the kiss of magic.

Her client, a cook named Widelene, sat on a stool near where Dominique worked. Even as her body remained slumped in her seat, she tracked every movement with sharp curiosity. The lines around her eyes were deeper than they should be, painting the woman’s exhaustion over her face for the world to see. It was no wonder she’d come to Dominique for help. The poor woman hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in over a week.

But that was about to change.

Dominique rubbed oil into the wick she’d pulled from her bag, then suspended it over the ingredients in the gourd with two slivers of ivory bone. “Those dreams won’t bother you anymore, Widelene. Take this and hang it from a tree in front of your house. Light it at sundown and douse it after you wake. The ingredients must be replaced every week for seven weeks and then you must throw the whole thing into the sea and say a prayer of thanks to Agwe. I will come to check on you next week and will bring fresh ingredients then.”

Widelene’s cloudy brown eyes bounced from Dominique to the butler behind her. “Th-thank you so much, Madame Laveau.”

Dominique inclined her head, the tail of her sunset-hued cotton head wrap sliding over her shoulder to brush the neckline of her white blouse.

“Don’t thank her.” The butler took an agitated step forward. “She hasn’t done anything but make a fool out of you.”

More color drained from Widelene’s face until her normal ebony complexion was nearly as light as Dominique’s own sienna hue. Her gaze flicked from Dominique to the butler and back. The sour man was above her in the house hierarchy and could make her working life miserable if he chose. But Dominique was a voodoo priestess, someone with power and influence amongst the
loa
, messengers to Bondye. The lines on her face deepened even more, her breathing becoming ragged.

Dominique rested a hand on Widelene’s knee, offering silent support. She rose to her feet from the position she’d been kneeling in for the last half hour.

Slowly. Slowly.

Keeping an iron grip on her balance, Dominique gained her feet in one smooth, unhurried motion, careful not to betray any of the sharp stabs of pain that pricked her knees and ankles from their time spent holding still in an uncomfortable position. She turned to confront the butler like an actress in a play, the movement graceful and dramatic, giving the man plenty of time to reflect on what she might say—what she might do. Her eyes locked on his.

“Gerard Xavier Roche.”

She enunciated every syllable, rolling them on her tongue. The skin at Gerard’s temples tightened, but his lip retained its derisive curl. His impeccably groomed hair was liberally sprinkled with grey, providing a contrast to skin the color of water on a moonless night. “So you know my name. You think that frightens me?” He snorted. “If that’s all you have,
voodoo queen
, then be on your way.” He glared at Widelene, his voice rising the deeper she huddled into her shawl. “You’ve gotten all the fool’s adulation you’re going to get here.”

Dominique slashed her hand through the air, halting with her fingers inches from his head. The butler tensed, but held his ground, hands balled tightly at his side like he was bracing for impact.

“Gerard. Xavier. Roche.”

With a flick of her wrist, Dominique plucked a hair from Gerard’s head, holding the strand inches in front of the butler’s nose. He pressed his lips together, firmly biting back whatever words he wanted to let fly. Power pulsed inside her, waiting to be used, but she ignored it. She didn’t need power for the likes of him. She leaned forward and put her lips a hair’s breath away from the shell of his ear.

“The gambling tables can be so cruel. Can’t they, Gerard Xavier Roche?”

The flinch that rattled the butler’s body was quick and violent. He swayed a little as though he would step back, but foolish pride was enough to help him stubbornly hold his ground.

“Time to count the family silver.” Dominique’s breath ghosted over his skin, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in its wake.

Gerard staggered back like he’d been struck, the full weight of his body pulling his shoulders down and his jaw sagging open. Widelene—the source of that particular bit of knowledge—let out a strangled whimper before she quickly remembered herself and covered her mouth. Dominique made a show of putting the hair into the pocket of her skirt, patting it as she looked down her nose at its origin.

“Respect is very important, Gerard Xavier Roche. Those who do not know whom to give it to will often find the lesson that follows to be very…unpleasant.”

With that parting shot, she swept out of the kitchen. Pointedly ignoring the servants’ exit, she strode up the stairs to the main house. Her burgundy skirts swirled around her legs, the heavy material rubbing against her like a friendly cat. She hauled it over her boots to keep her petticoats from tangling around her in an undignified fashion as she flowed through the foyer to the front doors.

“Madame Laveau, I didn’t realize you were here.”

The deep voice vibrated Dominique’s insides with the strength of the baritone. She recognized it immediately and spun around with open arms. “Leonaldo, what a pleasure.”

The lord of the manor strode across the foyer with the ambling gait of a man comfortable with himself and his environment. His skin was as dark as his voice was deep, his teeth a brilliant crescent moon in a night sky. He held his arms out and Dominique allowed him to fold her into his embrace, chuckling as he squeezed her and rocked her from side to side.

“You do not come around enough,” Lord Mercier told her, pulling back to see her properly. “You grow more beautiful every time I see you.”

“Shameless flattery is always welcome.” Dominique responded to her host’s joy with a full smile of her own. “And you are looking handsome as well.”

Lord Mercier rolled his eyes. “Are you sure about that? Have I not gone completely grey, then?”

She eyed the lord’s head of dark, well-groomed hair. There was a fair dusting of silver strands making themselves known, but he was far from being completely grey. “Something is driving the color from your hair, then?”

“Pah!”

Intrigued by that succinct response, Dominique followed the direction of the lord’s stare to the back of the house and caught a glimpse of a young servant biting his lip in deep concentration as he struggled to balance a tray full of dishes. His blue eyes were locked on the porcelain as if he could will them to stay put, his pale cheeks holding a pink tint that spoke of more exertion than such a task warranted. The tray teetered precariously and she had to avert her eyes or be overcome with a case of sympathetic nerves. “A new recruit, I see. He does not appear to be from Ville au Camp?”

“He is not.” Lord Mercier winced and looked away as if he too couldn’t bear the suspense of waiting for the tea set’s death. “A good friend’s daughter grew sweet on the boy during a visit to Nysa, and when they moved here to Sanguennay, she begged me to employ the lad so he could come as well.”

There was a gasp from the kitchen and Dominique tensed, her nerves screaming as they predicted the inevitable crash. “I’m sure he’ll fit in after he’s had a bit more time.”

“You have been away for a long time,” Lord Mercier pointed out tersely. “He’s already been here for
seven months
.”

She winced. “Oh dear.”

“He sticks out like a sheep in a horse herd,” Lord Mercier grumbled. “Practically glows in the dark. My wife got up in the middle of the night and nearly fainted dead away when she glanced out the window and saw him chasing down the dog he’d let out. Swore there was a ghost trying to eat her
petit chien
.”

Choking back a laugh, Dominique covered her mouth with her hand. The only reason the boy stood out so painfully was because Lord Mercier made it a point to only hire people from his homeland of Ville au Camp. Rumor was the lord had been run out of his homeland after he’d been falsely accused of fixing the games of chance in his gambling establishment to ensure no one would win without his consent—a deadly serious crime amongst a people who so dearly prized their games. He couldn’t go back home, and so he strove to make his manor here in Sanguennay into a replica of his beloved Ville au Camp, from the fanciful colors of the curtains to the dark skin of his household members.

“I had to take him off gardening duty,” Lord Mercier confided. “Boiled like a lobster before he’d been out an hour.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Perhaps you’re right. I shouldn’t be so hard on him.”

Crashing porcelain shattered the stillness of the air, followed by the unmistakable clamor of a serving tray. Lord Mercier’s right eye twitched.

“I should go.” Dominique bolted out the door with as much dignity as she could muster, not wanting to compromise her reputation by running, but not wanting to compromise it by laughing herself silly on the floor, either.

She emerged from the manor’s heavy doors, and warm, balmy air enveloped her like the embrace of a family member who always overstayed their welcome. Lord Mercier’s manor was located right at the edge of town, close enough that the sounds and scents of the village danced in the air. They called to Dominique, leading her down the path from the manor to the main road that wove like a writhing serpent through the center of town and all the shops that fought for space on this most precious real estate.

Lifting her face to relish a passing breeze, she inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of freshly baked bread, the musk of livestock, the perfume of liquors and wines, and the myriad odors of herbs and plants. The Midsummer Celebration was approaching.

Of all the celebrations that lit up the calendar, Midsummer was her favorite. It was a time to worship and praise not one, but all the spirits. A time when the most important thing was joy. Joy for everything they’d been given, joy for everything they loved. There would be food, dancing, games, and costumes. It was a time for pleasure and fun. Class and status didn’t matter, and behind the safety of masks and the dark of night, the wealthy would mingle with the poor, strangers would become friends, and the entire village would be…free.

Her smile grew brittle as a memory threatened to sour her good mood. A Midsummer Celebration that had been both the best and worst of her life. The night that—

Stop it. Stop it or you’ll make a fool of yourself.

Dominique slid her hands into the pockets of her apron, doing a spontaneous inventory of the various objects she carried with her. Satchels of powdered herbs, bits of string, a few coins, slivers of wood and bone, two small empty bottles, and a hodgepodge of stones and pebbles. Each one gathered at the subtle guidance of the
loa
to be used when the time was right.

As she made her way through the village to her home on the edge of the bayou, she took the time to acknowledge every individual she passed. If she knew a person’s name, she used it—first if they were a friend, first, middle, and last if they were not—and she stopped to chat and introduce herself if she didn’t know them at all. The former was more common than the latter, a fact that filled her with a deep sense of satisfaction. She wasn’t royalty by blood or combat, no, but here? In this part of Sanguennay, among these people? She was a queen. The voodoo queen of Sanguennay.

“Madame Laveau!”

Monsieur Hugon swept out of his tavern with a broad wave, large hand obscuring his face as it passed. The wedding ring on his finger caught the sunlight, a pleasant golden glow that took the edge off his gruff demeanor and mitigated his above-average stature. Dominique deviated from the cobblestoned road, keeping her strides slow and measured, not rushing nor dawdling. She would come at his summons, but she would arrive in her own good time.

“My throat is a bit dry,” she said as she approached. Her practical flat-soled shoes were silent on the wood porch leading up to the tavern.

“Allow me to offer you a drink then.” Monsieur Hugon stepped back and gestured for her to enter ahead of him. “You are, of course, always welcome here.”

The scent of the tavern was a personality all its own. The robust character of liquor, the teasing perfume of wine, and the frothy aroma of beer tickled her nose and mingled with the scent of wood polish and clean silver. She seated herself on a stool at the long bar that stretched from the wall near the door across to the other wall where a door led into the small kitchen. As Dominique settled her skirts around her, Monsieur Hugon bustled around on the other side of the counter, drawing out a plain, but clean glass from its fellows lining a shelf beneath the bar. He filled it with two fingers of bourbon.