Blue Voodoo: A Romantic Retelling of Bluebeard (The Hidden Kingdom Series Book 2) (2 page)

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.

The rich, amber colored liquid glittered behind the glass like a precious stone. Dominique waved it under her nose, inhaling the bouquet with an appreciative sigh. “Soft, mild with very light oak, subtle sweetness and herbal grass notes. Such a heavenly scent.”

“Only the best for you, Madame Laveau.”

She took a sip, holding her tongue to the roof of her mouth to fully appreciate the flavor. It
was
the best bourbon—but then she’d known that already. She was the one who’d supplied it.

“I hope you’ll enjoy a glass yourself, Monsieur Hugon.”

The large man leaned on the bar, the wood creaking in muted protest. “Would that I could, Madame Laveau. But I’m afraid our stores are rather low, and I would not want to take such fine liquor from the mouths of my customers.”

Ah.
“Have a glass, Monsieur Hugon. The
loa
always provide for the faithful.”

“From your mouth to their ears.” The tavern owner cleared his throat, the sound louder than it needed to be.

Madame Hugon appeared a moment later, so quickly one might have thought she was fey and had simply been hiding behind a veil, waiting for her husband’s signal. Her red hair had long ago faded to a tarnished blonde, but there were still rich streaks of auburn combing through the waves pinned close to her head in a casual plait. Her dress was plain brown cotton, but it was clean. Her cream-colored apron bore stains like badges of honor, marking the proud woman as someone who worked for a living. She beamed at Dominique as she set something colorful on the bar in front of her.

“Please accept this gift, Madame Laveau.” She caressed the material with the back of her fingers, holding Dominique’s gaze as she did so. “I wove it myself. A token of our appreciation for all you do for our community.” She patted the material again. “I hope it pleases you.”

Dominique amicably stroked a hand across the wool. Something hard and curved met her fingertips—gold coins wrapped in the scarf, tucked carefully into the pocket created by Madame Hugon’s clever folding. The amount felt right for two cases of bourbon.

“It is beautiful, Georgina.” She lifted the garment, careful not to jar the coins from their nest as she gently tucked it into a large pocket in her thick skirts. “I will wear it tonight for the festival.” She swirled her glass, watching the play of liquor against the sides. “You’ll be going to the festival as well, won’t you? I’m told there will be a stunning display of fireworks by the harbor tonight. I have friends who will be there at eight o’ clock. They’re coming all the way from Dacia and their ship is called the Adze. Do say hello to them for me if you see them.”

Monsieur Hugon bobbed his head, eyebrows knitted as he focused on trying to memorize the ship and the time. She would have told him to write it down if she weren’t so certain his wife would remember.

“Excited about tonight, I hope, Madame Laveau?”

“Of course.” Dominique took another sip of her bourbon. “The
loa
have been very good to us, I look forward to showing my gratitude and celebrating with my people. We must always be careful to remember from where our good fortune comes.”

Madame Hugon nodded, but it was an absent-minded gesture. “Of course, of course, but I was referring to Monsieur Marcon.”

The whiskey scalded Dominique’s windpipe as she gasped mid-swallow. Her eyes and nose burned, and she blinked slowly, clearing the sheen of sudden tears from her eyes as she fought off a deep cough.

Madame Hugon appeared blessedly unaware of her struggle and bunched her hands in her skirts and leaned forward, waiting with bated breath for Dominique’s response.

Marcon. Julien Marcon. He’s back? When? Why? It can’t be him.

She hushed the voice in her head brimming with questions and painted serenity over her face in as thick a layer as she could manage. “As you know, I have a great many duties to perform tonight for the Midsummer Celebration.” Despite her intentions, emotion made her voice hoarse, threatening to betray her calm facade. She took another slow sip of whiskey. “I cannot promise my time to any one person.”

“Oh, but Madame Laveau, you being one of their most dedicated priestesses, surely the spirits would be only too pleased to witness your engagement during this special time.”

“It’s unseemly for a gentleman to announce his engagement without his bride being present.” Monsieur Hugon scrubbed at a glass that was already clean. “And that beard of his—”

His wife slapped his stomach, the lines in her face suddenly deeper, her other hand tightening on the edge of the bar in a white-knuckled grip. Monsieur Hugon’s eyes bulged. “I-I of course meant no disrespect,” he rushed to add. “I’m sure he would not have announced such a thing without your blessing, Madame Laveau. And his beard—”

The glass of whiskey in Dominique’s hand shattered. Warm blood seeped through her fingers, mingling with the stinging bourbon as it pooled on the surface of the well-worn bar.

 Bluebeard had returned then. And he’d claimed to be her…fiancé.

I’m going to kill him.

Chapter Two

“
Mes amis
, see what the ocean has washed in.”

The obnoxious voice rose above the sounds of squalling gulls and the buzz of harbor traffic, pricking at Julien’s nerves like an unskilled violinist pawing at strings. The ropes sagged in his hands as he resigned himself to the same old routine he was too often forced to go through upon arrival in a new port.

“I do believe he’s a merman.” The man stood a few yards away, thumbs hooked in his plain tan trousers, his ocean-sprayed shirt clinging in random places on a body that was more gut than muscle. Dirty blond hair stuck up at odd angles, styled by the wind and ocean in the grand tradition of sailors everywhere. The mocking grin threatened to crack his face as he towered over Julien—a feat made possible only by the slanted deck.

“How’d ya get that color, anyway? Bury your face between the thighs of a snow queen? Too cold for you?”

Every word was punctuated by a short guffaw, a sound somewhere between a snort and a wheeze. One slow step at a time, Julien stalked up the deck, heavy boots landing with muffled, even thuds that echoed off the salt-crusted planks beneath them. The man’s friends, a motley crew of degenerates that appeared as though they’d been vomited from the depths of a pub, shifted nervously, a few of them shuffling a few steps back.

The speaker’s expression scarcely wavered as Julien devoured the distance between them until there was no path for escape. Julien slung an arm around the man’s shoulders and pulled him firmly against his side so he could tilt his head and speak directly into the man’s ear.

“It is an unusual color, isn’t it?” He rubbed a hand over his beard. It had only been a few days since his last shave, so the bristles were clean cut and even, not far past being stubble, but clearly dreaming of being a good, thick beard. It would have been quite handsome if not for one thing. Every strand was a brilliant, vibrant, undeniable…blue.

“Unusual isn’t the half of it.” The man’s voice lacked the force of a moment ago, but to his credit, he didn’t try to back away, and he met Julien’s eyes without flinching.

Julien leaned closer in a conspiratorial fashion. “Makes me easy to spot, doesn’t it?”

The man laughed, the sound reminiscent of a braying donkey. “That it does.”

“Easy to remember?”

“I should say so.”

“Interesting enough to send you running home to tell the story? Mention me to the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker?”

“They’d all get a right good laugh, true.”

Now the man’s friends were looking ill, their eyes skipping between Julien and their friend who remained blissfully unaware of the sword strapped to his thigh, or the way his fingers were ghosting over the thick, leather-wrapped hilt.

“Well, therein lies my problem. You see,” Julien clapped the man’s shoulder, “I happen to be a pirate.”

The man’s smile thinned to a brittle slash across his face, sudden unease singing from his body.

“As you can imagine, work like that requires a certain…subtlety. Secrecy even. One in such a position desires to keep…a low profile.” He gestured with his chin, drawing the sailor’s attention once again to the sapphire strands on his jaw. “You see my problem.”

His companion didn’t answer, but the color drained from his face. He’d been pale enough next to Julien’s sun-kissed skin, but now he was positively ghostly.

Slowly, Julien drew his sword from its sheath. The polished silver blade reflected the brilliant afternoon sunlight, casting shadows over his prisoner’s face and making him flinch from the sudden brightness slicing into his eyes.

“With a beard like this my business has suffered. Every law man from here to Ville au Camp to the bloody shores of Mu knows my face—or rather, my beard—and they have stubbornly refused to leave me be. Losing them does me no good since every port I leave is filled with people only too happy—and able—to identify me. Talk of my beard goes on long after I’ve left and where once no one would have remembered me after a day, now they remember me for weeks, months—years.” He rested the blade on the man’s shoulder, an inch from the thick vein in his neck that was even now throbbing with an erratic beat. “What choice do I have then, I ask you? What’s a pirate to do to get all these people to stop. Talking. About. The beard?”