Hounacier (Valducan Book 2) (14 page)

The priestess let out a long breath and shook her head. "I don't. But I do know what stalks our streets. Once I'd heard of Ulises' murder, I went to check on the mask of his, hopefully retrieve it before someone took it. But Mister Luison had already rescued it."

Malcolm straightened, pressing into the soft chair back. "You know of the mask?"

"Of course," she said with a smile. "I made it."

"You?" Malcolm blinked. "You made that?"

"I did."

"How?" he asked, the first of a dozen questions suddenly whirling through his mind.

"I can draw…exorcise the demon out then transfer its essence into another vessel."

"Not just masks?"

Atabei shook her head. "No. Demons can possess animals too. Or jewelry. Even a weapon. Just as long as the animal or material is one linked to the demon."

An unholy weapon?
A nameless chill wormed up Malcolm's spine. What could such a thing do? "So, obsidian for the ghoul."

"Yes. One of the reasons I sought out Ulises was to learn about the different minerals and how they work. I hadn't known how many breeds there were until after I'd made my first masks. He taught me a lot. I only wish we'd had more time together."

Malcolm blinked. "Masks? There's more than one?"

"Of course. I couldn't kill them, so I had to put them somewhere."

"How many?"

"Three." She licked her lips. "I was in Port-au-Prince. After the earthquake, there was talk of creatures eating the dead and stalking the camps. Three of them. It took some weeks to get them all and…two of my friends." She sipped her lemonade, washing away the mournful expression.

A weight formed in Malcolm's stomach, heavy and familiar. Ulises had wanted Malcolm to go after the quake, but Malcolm had been chasing down an itwan in Armenia with three other knights. It was eight months before he'd finally made it to Haiti. It had been his last visit. Ulises never forgave him for that.
They were hunting them themselves,
he thought.
Untrained. No holy weapons.
Surely, he could have gone. Helped out.

No.
If he hadn't been in Armenia, two knights might have died. Being in Haiti alone, especially during the aftermath, would have been too risky. They had to work as teams. It ensured survival for them and the weapons. Malcolm realized his grip had tightened around Hounacier's scabbard. He drank some more of his lemonade, swallowing back the regret. "How did you learn to do this?"

"It wasn't easy," she said. "My husband died many years ago because of a demon. I wanted to know how to destroy them. Save others from his fate. I spoke to priests, learned hoodoo. I met an exorcist once. He explained how faith can draw the spirit free. Consulted loa. It was years. But all I could do was trap them. Destroying them…" She shook her head.

"So you came to Ulises?"

"Yes. Ulises was like the Baron." She lifted a finger, moving it with each word like a conductor's wand. "When he came to your town, you knew…death was with him."

"But also life," Malcolm added.

"There were many funerals before he'd come. Then, only one. The last."

"Do you know why anyone would kill him?"

Atabei shook her head. "No. Ulises was loved but feared. I don't know who could have done it."

"Anyone you suspect?"

"A few," she said with a reluctant shrug. "As long as his killer is out there, none of us are safe."

Dishes rattled, muffled through the kitchen door. Footsteps echoed from somewhere above.

Malcolm tried to keep track of them. Four people at least. "Then why did you wait until now to contact me?"

She glanced down at her hands in her lap, fingers twisting. "I did not know you. And after some of the things Ulises told me, I did not know your convictions."

"Convictions?"

"Your…dedication. How far you will go to kill these monsters. It was difficult to approach you with my proposal until I knew your dedication."

Malcolm cocked his head. "What proposal?"

"There is a killer on the loose in this city. A monster. I want you to help me. With your help, I can draw it out, put it into an animal, and then you can kill it. No one has to die. I will do all in my power to help you find Ulises' murderer, but I ask this first before more people are killed."

Malcolm drew a long breath, studying the woman's face. She seemed sincere. His instincts told him not to trust her. But she was connected. She claimed a power that the Valducans had only ever heard of. What if she really could do as she claimed? "You said there were three ghoul masks."

"Yes."

"Can I see them?"

She smiled. "Of course. But they are not here."

"Where are they?"

"They are protecting others that the demon is after."

Malcolm swallowed. Demons didn't usually single out a specific victim. Not without reason. "After them how?"

"It wants their souls." She drew a heavy sigh. "We do not know where the monster is. I need you to summon it as Ulises could."

Malcolm frowned. He hadn't performed a summoning in years and never without Ulises' guidance. "It's not that simple. I need at least three souls the demon has marked."

"Is that all?" she asked as if it was something mundane, like he'd asked for a Coke.

He suppressed a snort. "No. But that's the hard part. Three demon-bound are nearly impossible to gather. And that's the minimum just for a lower breed. Vampire would need four. Rakshasa six. After that, I'd require a sanctified ring. And no one to bother us."

Atabei seemed to look through him, contemplating his words. She traced a finger along her jaw, stopping at her chin. "I think it would be best if I showed you something."

Chapter Ten

Malcolm sat in the back of a pearl-colored SUV, Hounacier's bag across his lap. Outside the window, the sprawl of tiny homes gave way to industrial complexes, giant fuel depots, and then county highway. The quaint, suburban houses eventually yielded to the lush, green forests of the bayou. Shorty, whose real name was Errol, sat beside him, watching the trees though his own window. He stank of some cheap, vanilla-scented cologne. Still, it was better than the lingering reek of cigarette smoke that had clung to Malcolm since back at the cafe. He wondered about that pistol he'd spotted at Errol's waist the other night. If he was wearing it, he didn't show. Sitting in a car seat with a gun in your spine was real uncomfortable. He was either very experienced with the hard discomfort or wore it somewhere else. Malcolm seriously doubted that Errol wasn't armed, and there was plenty of room under that triple-extra-large jersey of his.

Cornrows, now Quentin, drove. Quentin was soft-spoken, his country Creole accent somehow impervious to the modern media that had diluted so many others. There was a hard wariness to his blue eyes. They made an unsettling contrast to his dark skin. It had been Quentin who had carried the near-headless corpse to that dumpster and burned it. Errol had been quick to mention that he'd been the one that hosed the blood off the kill site as if that were somehow comparable. Police usually didn't shoot at you for spraying water and kicking gravel around like they did for incinerating naked corpses.

Atabei sat in the front, hands in her lap, fingers laced. Several bracelets circled her wrists, heavy with charms: beads of bone and ceramic, a couple silver coins, and other talismans. Malcolm thought about her claim of demon-bound jewelry. What would that do?
Nothing good
, he thought. Would she risk wearing something like that?

After a few minutes, they turned at a trailer park and continued down a narrow strip of road. Tree branches arched above like the rafters in some ancient cathedral, draped with tattered banners of Spanish moss. Through the blur of tree trunks and foliage, Malcolm could see patches of brackish water coming nearly to the edge of the elevated road. His ribs panged with each bump and bounce. Eventually, Quentin pulled the vehicle onto a dirt drive. Errol hopped out and opened a rusty gate. He closed it behind them then climbed back in.

Malcolm shifted on the leather seat. Whatever surprise Atabei had was coming, and he wasn't really sure what to expect. Before they'd left, he'd gone to the restroom and sent a text to Allan, letting the Valducans know what was going on just in case.

The road turned, and the forest opened up into an enormous field. Two other vehicles sat parked in the grass to one side. On the other, at least a dozen shipping containers of various colors formed a giant ring, nearly filling the open span. A few looked as though someone had taken a scrap torch to them, cutting windows and doors. Wooden ladders and even stairs connected to the upper stacked boxes, forming a second story on some. It reminded Malcolm of a training course Nick had once made in order to prepare knights for raids.

A slender woman in a straw, wide-brimmed hat looked up from a fenced garden just outside the ring and waved. Malcolm noticed the black shotgun leaning against the post only a few feet away. Beyond it, chickens pecked and strutted inside a wide, caged coop.

Quentin parked the vehicle beside an old Saturn.

"We're here," Atabei said, and opened her door.

Malcolm tongued the back of his teeth, drew a breath, then opened his own door. The sticky, Louisiana heat came down like an enormous hand. Black and red insects buzzed around, flying between the flowering weeds. Letting the others take the lead, he followed Atabei to where the gardener stood.

"Nice to see you, Miss Cross." The woman pulled a pair of grimy gloves from her hands.

"How are you today, Kiesha?" Atabei asked.

"Oh, I'm doin' fine. Tomatoes are comin' along real good," Keisha said, sweeping her hand with an air of gardener's pride. "Started some leeks over there."

Malcolm half-listened while the two women talked. Over Keisha's shoulder, he spied the back of a crude figure like a scarecrow made of lashed straw and animal bones, facing outside toward the woods. He guessed its face would be a painted wooden mask. Glancing to the left, he spotted another one far to the side. It, too, stood at a man's height, bright string holding it to a carved post. Although he couldn't see them beyond the container village, he knew he would find two more, also facing the cardinal points. Standard hoodoo ward for protection, just larger than he'd normally encountered. Maybe later, he'd get a chance to have a closer look, see the specific totems used.

"So, the others around?" Atabei asked.

"Nah," Keisha said with a shake of her head. "Gabe and Peewee went into town 'bout half-hour ago. Should be back soon."

Atabei motioned her head toward the container ring. "And our guests?"

"Oh, they're fine." She lowered her voice. "Leigh Ann's been cryin' for her mamma."

Atabei sighed and nodded. "Nothing we can do about that. At least not yet." She gestured to Malcolm. "This is Doctor Romero. He's Ulises' boy."

Keisha's baggy eyes widened. "Oh! Oh, it's so good to meet you, Doctor." She offered a hand. "Keisha LaFargue."

Malcolm displayed his palm.

She looked at it, forehead crinkled in a confused expression.

"Pleasure to meet you, ma'am" he said, shaking her hand.

"Keisha's one of the people taking care of our guests," Atabei said, like that was supposed to mean something to him." She turned back to the gardener. "Can we see them?"

"Oh course. Of course," Keisha gushed. She moved toward the leaning shotgun, but Atabei stopped her.

"That's all right. We've got it."

"Are you sure?"

The priestess nodded. "We'll be fine. Doctor Romero is here if we have trouble." She gave Malcolm a cryptic smile. "Thank you, Keisha."

Malcolm nodded goodbye to the woman and followed Atabei and the two men past a dingy green container and into the ring itself. The ground inside was packed flat, devoid of vegetation save weeds alongside steel boxes. A thick post jutted from the great ring's center, standing over ten feet high. Carved animal and human faces adorned the dark wood like a totem pole, but more African in design.

They crossed the arena to one of the boxes, a red one, sun-faded to a mottled pink. A small window air-conditioner hummed at its back end, dripping condensation into a tiny mud puddle. Someone had built a tight cage around the unit with rebar, the silver weld points glinting new in the sunlight. Beside it, a steel winch, like the kind used to pull a fishing boat onto a trailer, was bolted in place, its blue, plastic-coated cable running inside through a little slit. There were no windows in this box. Only a pair of window-shaped clusters of cut holes, each about as big around as a finger.

Quentin lifted the side of his shirt and reached for a pistol tucked at his hip.

Shit!
Expecting a trap, Malcolm's hand slid into Hounacier's bag, gripping her handle. Quentin, not seeming to pay him any attention, drew a black snub-nose and strolled around to the container front. Malcolm looked at Atabei.

The priestess saw his hand in the bag. "You might need that." She nodded in Quentin's direction, urging him to follow. Errol was approaching the winch. He slipped his hand up the front of his jersey and drew a pistol out from the front of his huge shorts. Nick used to call people that did that idiots. Said they would panic, grab the gun, and squeeze the trigger in excitement or get it tangled in their clothes and blow their dicks off. Guaranteed way to spot an amateur.

"Go on," Atabei said.

Malcolm drew Hounacier from her sheath and followed Quentin, trying to keep his eye on Errol and on the black little holes drilled into the air-conditioned container. He rounded the corner, and the scarab tattoo itched, starting its dance.

A pair of black, obsidian masks stood maybe neck high atop a post, dead even between the container and the one opposite. They were just like the one in Jim's shop. Withered, leering skulls, their eyes tiny orbs set in deep sockets. They were attached back to back, each facing a container door.

Quentin stood there, his pale eyes on the holy machete, revolver down at his side. "Be sure not to get in front of the mask."

"What is this?" Malcolm asked.

"It's for our safety." He banged lightly on the steel door and peered through a slot cut eye-level. "Coming in. Against the wall." After a couple seconds, he called, "Okay!"

Ratcheting clicks came from the back of the box as Errol worked the winch. "Locked!"

Quentin nodded to Malcolm. "Don't get in front of the mask." He popped open the door.

The stink of humanity, unwashed and oily, wafted from the open door. A mattress lay in one corner near a table bolted to the wall, a few books atop it. A small radio sat on a white, plastic chair. Closer to the door, a shower curtain hung from a ring. The stink of urine and feces emanated from the blue, plastic toilet visible inside.

Malcolm's jaw tightened as he saw a young man, maybe twenty, his clothes crumpled and stained, standing against the far wall, his head turned away and eyes scrunched. "What is this?"

Grass crunched as Atabei came around beside him. "He's marked. Found him a couple weeks ago. Bitten. We patched him up and brought him here. Gary," she said with a mother's voice. "Gary, this is Malcolm. He's going to help you."

The man's eyes, hidden behind greasy brown hair, glanced up at Malcolm for only a moment.

Malcolm stepped closer, Hounacier out front. His hair rustled in the window unit's cool blast. Atabei followed. He noticed the round, white, metal collar around the man's neck, just below the unkempt beard. "Silver?"

"Yes."

"Gary," he said, stopping just a few feet from the trembling man.

Gary grunted pathetically.

"Look at me."

The man shook his head.

Malcolm side-stepped, coming between the prisoner and the mask outside. "Look up."

Immediately, the man's shivers stopped. He drew four deep breaths and opened his eyes. He lifted his gaze, wide eyes pleading and desperate.

"Is this true? Did you see a monster?"

"I don't know. They say I did. It was dark. Some animal came out the woods. Attacked me. Tore me up real good." He showed his arms, striped with pinkish scars. "Say I'm infected. You gotta help me, Mister."

Malcolm raised his palm.

Gary winced and turned away, his collar rattling.

"I see." Malcolm met Atabei's eyes, pursed his lips, and walked back out to where Quentin stood.

"You've kept him here, prisoner, for weeks?" Malcolm asked once the door was shut.

Atabei nodded. "We hadn't expected it to be this long. Ulises said he'd get you back here, but then…" She shrugged.

Malcolm thought of Ulises' cryptic messages. Of course, the old man wouldn't have shared anything like that in them. He died waiting for a phone call that never came. Pushing back the regret, Malcolm nodded to the second container, the other mask guarding its door. "Who's in there?"

She smiled weakly. "That's Leigh Ann."

"Show me."

Errol released the winch, allowing slack in Gary's leash. As before, Quentin knocked and ordered the prisoner inside the other box to move to the wall.

Malcolm eyed the big man's revolver. "You know, bullets won't work on that thing if it transforms."

A faint grin tugged at Quentin's lips. "These will." He swung open the cylinder and drew out a single shell. Silver. Two deep slices formed a cross across the slug's nose. It wasn't religious. The cuts would peel the bullet open like a flower once it hit flesh. Very nasty.

"Locked!" Errol called.

Quentin slid the bullet back into the chamber, clicked the cylinder shut, and popped the door handle open.

Malcolm stood ready, Hounacier in hand. The door groaned open, releasing a fresh waft of foul air. The sparse furnishings were like the other except…toys. Stuffed, brightly colored toys littered the floor. A sickening wave rolled through his stomach. Standing at the back wall, a young black girl, maybe nine years old, clutched a dirty, sea-green, plush elephant, her eyes downcast.

Son of a bitch.
Malcolm's mouth dropped open for only a moment. He wanted to tell Quentin to shut the door, pretend he didn't see the terrified child locked in a steel box and held to a wall.
No. I need to check her.

He stepped inside. Again, Atabei followed. They stopped about eight feet away.

"Leigh Ann," Atabei said, her voice tender. "Leigh Ann, this is Doctor Malcolm. He's going to make you better."

The girl shifted, still refusing to look up at them.

Malcolm stepped between her and the mask and crouched down. No matter what this girl was, he couldn't let himself forget what she might become. "Hi, Leigh Ann. Look up for me."

Her big, brown eyes lifted, partially hidden beneath a frizzy curtain of oily hair.

Slow, as to not startle her, he raised his arm and opened his palm.

Leigh Ann screamed, shrill and horrible. The stuffed animal fell to the floor, and she pressed her hands over her eyes.