Black Dust Mambo (16 page)

Augustine struggled to remember what it was he’d seen in Ms. Rivière’s eyes as she’d leaned over him, using her pink bathrobe as a compress against his wound. Tried to remember the words he’d said to her as he’d died. But failed.

Augustine plucked free one of the cigarettes in the opened stainless-steel case on his desk, then hesitated as he remembered the coughing fits his first few attempts had triggered. Apparently, the nomad wasn’t a smoker. A pity, really.

He trailed the cigarette beneath his nose. The enticing dark-Turkish-tobacco-and-black-cherry scent, sharp and rich, curled into his nostrils like a favorite lover’s cologne. Augustine sighed. Maybe he’d have one just before vacating the nomad’s body: the proverbial last cigarette. He tucked the smoke back into its case, then flipped the lid closed.

“It seems Ms. St. Cyr lied during our hallway conversation,” Augustine said, resting the maid’s file on Kallie Rivière in his lap. He picked up his fork and stirred it through his eggs. “She’s originally from Delacroix, Louisiana, not Haiti.”

“She
is
a murderer, my lord. Hardly an occupation conducive to telling the truth.”

“Indeed. I found very little on her aside from the usual—parents, school records, a few book reviews on Barnes and Noble—no criminal history. Unless you consider her positive and glowing review of
Going Rogue
criminal. However, I found one very intriguing fact.”

Felicity strolled back to his desk, then relaxed into one of the plush chairs positioned in front of it. Crossing her legs in a graceful and elegant motion, she took a sip of her tea, an inquiring eyebrow raised.

“Her father, Jean-Julien St. Cyr, was released from the Louisiana State Penitentiary just a month ago after completing a twenty-five-year sentence for murder. He used to be known as Doctor Heron, a root doctor of some repute, until he went to Angola for poisoning and killing several clients.”

“And was Gabrielle LaRue responsible for Doctor Heron going to prison?”

Augustine frowned and skewered a sausage with his fork. “No, as far as I can determine, and that’s the problem. Well, or
a
problem. Gabrielle LaRue herself is another issue.”

The
bee-dink
of a new e-mail message sounded from his laptop. Glancing at the screen, Augustine saw a message from the board of directors. Irritation flickered through him. His sausage-filled fork clattered onto his plate.

Normally in the event of a master’s unexpected death, the board would tie up all loose ends and seek out someone to fill the master’s shoes. But since Augustine resided within a Vessel’s body and was therefore still present despite being dead, the board had—in pure blasted laziness—elected to leave many of the transition details in his hands. Honestly, he had too much to do as it was.

Augustine clicked open the message.

Have you chosen an interim-master until we can properly choose a replacement?

Sitting forward in his chair, Augustine’s fingers danced in a fury across the laptop’s keyboard, tapping out a lie.

Yes. Shall inform you of who once they’ve accepted the position.

He hit Send. A moment later, another
bee-dink
.

It’s been a pleasure working with you. Again, our condolences.

Please be sure to leave your keys on the desk before you pass on.

Augustine zipped the cursor up to the Delete X and stabbed a finger against the mouse. “Keys, indeed. Bleeding idiots,” he muttered. Glancing at Felicity through his lashes, he added, “My apologies for the language, Mrs. Fields.”

“No need, my lord. I’ve had several slips of the tongue myself.” Leaning forward, Felicity set her cup on the edge of his desk. Her perfume—fresh-dewed roses—swirled into the air. “Now, what is the issue that Gabrielle LaRue presents?”

“She seems to be a ghost. No records of any kind—DMV, birth, SSN—and nothing to indicate that she actually
is
a member of Ms. Rivière’s family.”

“My, my, my.”

Snippets of his earlier conversation with Kallie Rivière skimmed through Augustine’s mind.

“Who is Gabrielle LaRue?”

“My aunt. The woman who raised me and my cousin.”

“Ah. So your aunt is a hoodoo too. I imagine she taught you.”

“Conjuring runs in the family. For the most part.”

Had Sophie Rivière also been a hoodoo?

“However, that doesn’t mean that she
isn’t
a distant relative from one side of the family or another. Given that Ms. LaRue is also caring for one of Ms. Rivière’s cousins, it would seem to indicate a definite connection.”

“Or an interest in Ms. Rivière’s bloodline.”

Augustine went still. He held Felicity’s bright gaze, his heart picking up its pace, a gentle gallop. An image of the sultry beauty with the tilted violet eyes flashed through his mind.

Kallie Rivière closes her eyes and leans over him, arms locking as her hands press down on the wad of pink bathrobe piled on his chest. She murmurs a prayer or chant, which ends abruptly when she stiffens, muscles rigid, and . . .

And
what
? What had he seen? The memory continued to elude him.

“Intriguing point, Mrs. Fields,” Augustine murmured. “
Very
intriguing.” And chilling, if true. A bloodline that her mother and Rosette St. Cyr had both attempted to end. For different reasons? No way to know given that Sophie Rivière had never voiced her motive. One thing it wasn’t—a coincidence.

“I’ll see if Mr. Bonaparte happens to be a maternal or paternal cousin.” Felicity rose to her feet and went to her desk at the other side of the room. As she perched on her chair, her quick and nimble fingers clacked across the computer’s keyboard.

Augustine replayed the conversation that had taken place between Kallie and Rosette after he’d died, a conversation memorized by the guards present.

“I just have a few questions for her.”

“
And I have one for you, Kallie Rivière. How many people are you going to allow to die in your place before you accept your fate?”

“
What fate? And who the hell
are
you?”

“
An eye for an eye is never enough. Never, never, never.”

“You murdered two men who never did you any harm, and for what? Why? You even killed Gage’s soul, you goddamned
chienne!”

“
That wasn’t supposed to happen. How did you know?”

“
That doesn’t matter. What
does
matter is why.”

“Your fate comes compliments of Gabrielle LaRue, and you can thank her for it. You want answers? Ask her.”

Revenge, yes. An eye for an eye. But for what wrong? And why not wreak vengeance upon Gabrielle LaRue instead of her innocent niece? Another intriguing point was the fact that Kallie had been selected for soul death and Brûler for simply a physical one.

Augustine could guess at the motivation behind those decisions. What better way to make your enemy suffer than to destroy those she loves? He closed the maid’s file on Kallie Rivière, then tossed it onto his desk.

He glanced at the time on his laptop. 8:40 p.m. He wondered how much time he had before Mc Kenna Blue popped in to demand that Rosette St. Cyr be handed over for clan justice and that Valin’s body be vacated. He didn’t trust the little nomad to wait until her clan’s arrival in New Orleans.

Daoine shena liri.

Clan law of the People. Nomads had nothing to do with squatter courts—mundane or magical—preferring to administer their own brand of justice to those accused of crimes against nomads. Always had and, no doubt, always would.

Most law enforcement agencies were just as quick to arrest a nomad victim as the squatter perp, simply because nomads were regarded as outlaws and thieves and cons—a pagan blend of biker and Gypsy, and just as welcome as both in polite society.

As for himself, he had every intention of delivering the maid to the nomads. Given Gage Buckland’s murder and soul death, the woman deserved whatever they meted out to her. It didn’t matter one whit that Buckland’s death and his own had been unintentional.

But what if Rosette
wasn’t
the one responsible? Or the only one involved? Soul-killing magic required immense power, skill, and focus.

“Does Ms. St. Cyr seem capable to you of having created the hex on Ms. Rivière’s mattress alone, Mrs. Fields?”

Felicity looked away from her computer monitor, her forehead wrinkling as she pondered his question, a single finger tap-tapping against her chin. “I only saw her briefly in the hall outside Ms. Rivière’s room,” she replied, “right after Mr. Valin had wheeled the body out. She seemed disturbed and anxious, but I attributed it to her having just seen a dead body wheeled away.”

“And?”

“Based on what I saw, no, my lord. She seems too easily rattled to possess the deep well of calm and strength it would take to craft such a hex.”

“My thought as well, Mrs. Fields.”

“Do we know Jean-Julien St. Cyr’s whereabouts?”

“He’s listed as having moved to Delacroix. Since he completed his sentence, he’s not on parole and doesn’t need to check in with anyone.”

“So the infamous Doctor Heron could just as easily be here,” Felicity said.

“Indeed.” Picking up the other file folder, Augustine added, “It’s not out of the realm of possibility that we are underestimating Rosette St. Cyr.”

“We could be, my lord.” Felicity gave her attention back to her computer monitor, her fingers returning to the keyboard. Quiet clicking filled the air.

The second folder, a very thin file on Gabrielle LaRue, contained only two photos and a single sheet of paper. The first photo showed a slender, dark-skinned woman in her fifties wearing a simple green-and-blue-flowered sun-dress. A green scarf hugged the gray-streaked black curls framing her face. She wore gold hoops in her ears. She stared into the camera, unsmiling, but sunlight danced in her hazel eyes.

Her skin color indicated that she had to be a maternal relative, since Kallie’s father was white—but maybe a distant relative, given that she looked nothing like Sophie Rivière.

The second photo was smaller, an old Polaroid shot, its edges bent and worn. A much younger version of the woman from the first photo glanced from beneath her lashes over one smooth, bare shoulder, her black curls unbound, her lips curved into a seductive and playful smile.

Such an intriguing and intimate shot. Either the young Gabrielle LaRue had been posing for a Craigslist “model” job or she was flirting with a lover.

Augustine flipped the photo over. One word was scrawled across the back in a masculine hand:
GABI
. Yearning still seemed to whisper from that long-ago inscribed name, a sweetheart’s desire.

Who had earned that luscious smile from Gabrielle LaRue? Who had taken the photo and written her name on the back? And how had the photo come into Rosette St. Cyr’s possession?

Augustine couldn’t help wondering if Gabrielle LaRue and Jean-Julien St. Cyr had been lovers once upon a time. He glanced at the paper beneath the photos. It held only three words:
Bayou Cyprès Noir.

Augustine returned the poor excuse for a file to its box. He felt like going for a walk, or perhaps going out for a pint while he was still capable of enjoying one. “Please contact Ms. Brown and find out if Ms. Rivière is awake yet. We need to talk, and time is running out.”

“At once, my lord.”

N
INETEEN
H
ER
F
INER
Q
UALITIES

Kallie stared at Dallas. “You
what
?” Her voice cut through the conversational buzz beneath Café Du Monde’s green-and-white-striped awning. She thumped her café au lait back down onto the white metal table. Coffee sloshed over the cup’s rim, spilling hot on her fingers, but not hot enough to burn.

Dallas set his powdered-sugar-coated beignet on a napkin, then rocked forward in his chair, resting his forearms against the table. “Look, it ain’t as bad as it sounds. Gabrielle was worried about you, that’s all. She wanted to be sure that you were okay.”

“By sending you to
spy
on me?”

“Well,
spying
is a bit harsh, more like
looking out for
—but in a nutshell, yeah.”

“And you agreed to do it,” she said, voice flat. “Despite the fact that I’m an adult and more than capable of taking care of myself.” She tightened her fingers around her thick paper cup and continued to hold his gaze, refusing to give him an ounce of wiggle room. “Even when I was a kid, you never treated me like one. I never expected this from you.”

“That’s what I said to him too, girl,” Belladonna murmured, a gleeful little you’re-in-for-it-now-boy tone dancing in her voice. “Go on, tell her the bit about the brainwashing.”

Kallie frowned. “Brainwashing?”

“Christ, Bell,” Dallas muttered, slashing a glance her way. “Ain’t you supposed to be wielding a tape measure in a swinging-dick competition or something?”

“That’s not for two hours, and I’m judging a wet-boxers contest, thank you,” Belladonna replied. “You ought to enter,” she added, popping a sugary bit of beignet into her mouth. She glanced at Kallie. “What’s that saying? ‘No fool, no fun?’”

“Pas d’amusement sans bêtise.”

Belladonna nodded, blue-and-black curls swaying in the breeze. “That’s the one.”

Smiling, Dallas leaned back in his chair and stretched his jeans-clad legs out in front of him. Crossed his Durangos at the ankles. Mr. Smooth-and-Sexy. “Darlin’, the only fool would be you, cuz the moment I stepped on that stage, the contest would be over.”

“With everyone scrabbling for telescopes and magnifying glasses, yeah, it’d be goddamned impossible to continue,” Kallie growled. “Now let’s get back to the brainwashing.”

Dallas groaned. “There
was
no brainwashing.” He arrowed one more narrow-eyed glare at Belladonna—who ignored him, a satisfied smile on her plump, sugar-dusted lips—before returning his attention to Kallie. “Just Gabrielle’s fears. You know how she feels about carnival and the people who run it.”

“She thinks they’re all fools,” Kallie said, curling her fingers around the
loa
and saint pendants hanging below her throat. “Me too, obviously, and a fool she can’t trust to boot.” Her muscles knotted, and she felt a dull throb above her right eye—the headache’s return.

Dallas trailed a hand through his hair, his expression unhappy. “No, now, c’mon,” he said, “don’t be like that. You ain’t never been to carnival before, and she was—”

“Worried?” Kallie finished. “I heard you the first time, Dallas Brûler. All you’re doing is making excuses for her.”

“She loves you, Kallie. Wants to be sure you’re safe.”

“She loves Jacks too, and I know she worried about him like hell the first time he sailed alone, but I’m pretty goddamned sure she didn’t hide a stowaway on his boat to spy on him.”

Dallas hunched forward in his chair again. He shoved his napkin with its half-eaten beignet aside. “I
wasn’t
spying, just keeping an eye out for you. And Jacks wasn’t sailing with magic, now was he?”

“No, he wasn’t. But what’s that got to do with anything?”

“Everything. Magic can backfire. Magic can swallow a person whole.”

“So can the sea.”

“Believe me, hon, if Jacks had taken to hoodoo and learned to be a root doctor, and then had hauled his skinny ass off to N’awlins to cavort at carnival, your aunt woulda sent someone to keep an eye on him too.”

“Boy’s ass ain’t skinny. Mmm-mmm. One tight end,” Belladonna purred. “What?” she said, when both Dallas and Kallie paused to stare at her. “I’m just saying.” She made a shooing motion with one hand. “Anyhow, go on—spying, trust issues, denials . . .”

“Lying—add that to the list, Bell,” Kallie added, releasing her pendants and tossing her wadded-up napkin onto the table. She looked at Dallas. “And you’ve been telling whoppers for Gabrielle, am I right?”

The root doctor shook his head. “Nope, you’re wrong on that score, sugar-doll. Your aunt’s plain paranoid about the outside world and the people running around in it, you know that.”

“So we’re back to her not trusting me to protect myself.”

“She trusts you, dammit. I talked to her this afternoon while you were sleeping—”

“Comatose,” Belladonna said around a mouthful of beignet.

Dallas flicked her an annoyed glance. “
Sleepin
’, and I let her know you were all right. Caught her up on what happened, too.”

“Such a good and thoughtful little spy,” Kallie said. She felt a mocking smile quirk up one corner of her mouth. “I hope she wasn’t pissed at you for getting caught.”

Dallas eyed her for a long moment, a hint of anger sparking hot in his blue eyes. “You really can be a pain in the ass, darlin’.”

Belladonna snorted. “You just
now
noticing that, Dallas Brûler?”

“Not much of a spy, is he?” Kallie commented.

“Oh, I noticed your pain-in-the-goddamned-ass quality some time ago,” Dallas said, “but was too much of a gentleman to mention it.”

Belladonna’s hand froze at her mouth, the last bite of beignet in her fingers. She stared at Dallas, hazel eyes wide. “Sweet Jesus, Shug, he’s serious,” she said.

“About not mentioning my finer qualities?”

“About thinking he’s a gentleman.”

Dallas slouched back into his chair. “Ha-ha, hilarious. You two should take it on the road.”

“You shoulda just been honest, Dallas Brûler,” Kallie said, voice tight. “Shoulda found me and just told me what Gabrielle asked you to do. I know how she can apply the pressure. I woulda understood.”

A smile slanted Dallas’s lips. “Darlin’, I doubt that. You probably woulda decked me.”

“Maybe,” Kallie allowed. “But even if I had, I woulda helped you back up onto your feet. I thought we had an understanding, you and me. For now, you’d better keep your distance.”

“Sorry, but I made a promise.”

“Sorry, but you’re gonna hafta break it. Tell me this—did Gabrielle know something was going to happen? Is
that
why she sent you?”

Dallas scrubbed a hand over his face, hesitating, then he said, “No, she didn’t. She just wanted to be sure you were safe, that’s all.”

Kallie studied him, saw doubt in the depths of his eyes. He was hiding something, but what? “How come I don’t believe you?” she asked, her voice soft.

“I can’t answer that, hon,” Dallas replied. “Maybe you should ask your aunt.”

“Funny. That goddamned Rosette said the same thing,” Kallie said. “I plan to ask, believe you me.” Her headache settled in, a steady throb, but nothing like it had been originally when she’d hit her head. Planting her elbows on the tablecloth, she closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead with her fingertips.

“You okay?” Dallas asked. “How’s the pain? I can mix up—”

“Not necessary,” Kallie said, dropping her hands and opening her eyes. “It’s nothing to worry about.” She gathered the mass of her hair and tossed it behind her shoulders. The movement stretched her thin black tank top tight across the swell of her breasts. She noticed Dallas’s gaze drop from her face to her bustline—and linger.

“You spying on my tits too?” Kallie pulled the neckline of her tank down low enough to reveal rounded cleavage cupped by a deep-blue bra. “That give you a better view?”

Dallas grinned. “Much better, sugar-doll. But maybe you could bend over a little more?” he said, scooting his chair out of punch-throwing range.

“Guess I asked for that one,” Kallie muttered, tugging the tank’s neckline back where it belonged. She lifted her chin despite the heat rushing to her cheeks.

“That you did, darlin’.”

Kallie shoved her chair back across the pavement and stood. She exchanged a quick glance with Belladonna.
Ready to go?
The slim voodooienne nodded, then rose to her feet as well, brushing crumbs from her black leggings and belted purple tunic.

“I catch you spying on me or
looking out for
me or any other goddamned thing, and I’ll break your nose,” Kallie said, stabbing a finger at Dallas. “You hear me,
podna
?”

“I think the key words in that sentence are ‘
catch you,
’” Dallas drawled.

“Don’t play games with me, Brûler. I ain’t in the mood.”

“Where you going?” he asked, standing.

“You’re off spy duty, remember? So what does it matter?” Kallie replied.

Dallas brushed powdered sugar and pastry crumbs from his jeans. “Hey, can’t a friend ask?”

“A friend could, yeah. But since friends don’t spy on each other, you don’t qualify.”

“So that’s how it’s gonna be, huh?” Dallas said quietly.

“Yup. For now.”

A muscle played along Dallas’s jaw. “Okay, then.”

Kallie turned away from the root doctor and the hurt she’d seen shadowing his blue eyes. Wondered if he’d seen the same in her eyes when he’d revealed himself as Gabrielle’s spy. But what hurt most of all was knowing that her
ti-tante
had felt a need to send a spy in the first place.

Why doesn’t she trust me?

Belladonna looped her arm through Kallie’s. “C’mon, Shug, let’s head over to the carnival and have a little bit of fun.”

Kallie looked at her friend. Belladonna winked, and Kallie couldn’t help but grin despite the cold knot tangling up her heart. “Why the hell not?”

Dallas watched Kallie and Belladonna cross Decatur Street, weaving through the damned near bumper-to-bumper traffic. A heavy combination of springtime tourists and carnival attendees. Both women moved with a natural hip-swinging ease, Kallie in her cutoffs, black tank, and sandals, and Belladonna in her black-belted purple tunic, black leggings, and platform-soled black boots.

Nice view. Very nice.

He had a feeling they were heading for the carnival itself, the whole thing spread throughout the Prestige’s massive open-air courtyard—safe from the switched-off public. Maybe he should give Kallie a little bit of space—like, say, the space of one or two beers—before he started tailing her again. The killer was in Hecatean custody, after all.

But, killer in custody or not, he hadn’t seen a mojo bag hanging around Kallie’s slender throat, and she shouldn’t be without one. Not here. Cupping his hands around his mouth, Dallas yelled, “Hey, Rivière! Where’s your protection?”

Several heads at nearby tables swiveled in his direction at his shouted question, beignets and paper coffee cups paused at their mouths.

Kallie twisted around, and dipped a hand beneath her tank and into her bra. Dallas’s heart danced a happy little jig. Pulling her hand out, she held up a small red flannel bag, cocked her weight onto one hip, and arched a dark eyebrow.

Mmm, mmm, mmm. Lucky bag.

Good enough.
Dallas nodded and waved her on. Stuffing the mojo bag back into her bra, Kallie pivoted, all suppleness and sexy grace, and resumed walking.

Dallas worked his way across the street, stopped at a restaurant’s booze-to-go window, and ordered an Abita Amber. A twinge of guilt twisted his muscles tight. He’d hated seeing the blend of pissed-off hurt hollowing Kallie’s face. Hated knowing that he’d helped put it there. Hated lying to her even more.

The waitress slid a clear plastic cup full of foamy beer across the windowsill. “Thanks, darlin’.” Dallas paid, grabbed his beer, and sauntered along the tourist-thronged sidewalk. He poured a long draft of the amber liquid down his throat—malty and smooth, just a hint of caramel, and so cold it made his throat ache.

But it would take a helluva lot more than one beer to wash away the niggling doubts coiling and looping and snaking through his mind. Doubts about Gabrielle. Doubts about everything she’d told him in that courtyard.

After his potion had eased Kallie into sleep, Dallas had corralled Belladonna into a long chat about everything he’d missed during the day’s events—the soul-killing hex and Gage’s murder.

“The killer? She told Kallie something about an eye for an eye never being enough and that Kallie could thank Gabrielle LaRue for everything. Psycho bitch.”

That had stunned Dallas, the killer knowing Gabrielle by name. Troubled him still. And the soul-killing hex iced him down to the bone. Several dark possibilities had flashed through his mind:

1. Revenge for some wrong, vicious and soul-killing complicated, nothing plain or simple about it.

2. Every single word Gabrielle had told him in the botanica courtyard had been the absolute truth: “
A seed done been planted inside de girl, a seed dat can never be allowed to blossom. If it does, Dallas-boy, den somet’ing more wicked den long-fallen Babylon and crueler den hell will walk de earth once more.”

“
How will we keep the seed from blossoming?”

“
You keep it away from de t’ings dat make it grow. Dis seed craves darkness and strife and blood. We gotta make sure it doesn’t get dem. Gotta make sure de seed ain’t fed.”

But someone had been working their balls off (or tits off, in this case) to do exactly that, using blood and death and darkness. Kallie had never been the true target, just those around her, blood sacrifices to the seed harbored inside of her.

And his least favorite possibility:

3. Every single word Gabrielle had told him in the botanica courtyard had been the absolute truth. But then she’d decided to do what she believed necessary to stop a ravening evil from awakening and walking the earth, what she believed necessary to spare her niece a living nightmare. She’d found someone—Rosette—to lay down a hex that would kill both Kallie and whatever the fucking seed was. When that had failed, Rosette had kept trying.