Hounacier (Valducan Book 2) (28 page)

"You better," the Baron answered, stepping around him. "This is your part. And you still owe me a debt."

"I can't draw it out."

The Baron gave a wide grin. "You better, because that," he pointed to Matt standing outside the ring, arms crossed across his chest, Dämoren in hand, "that there's the judge. He says if you live or die. Better make him happy, or I'll be digging your grave before sunrise."

The tight, silver chain dug into his neck as Malcolm shook his head. "I can't do it."

"We'll see." He puffed the cigar, and he turned back to where loa painted the circle closed. The drums quickened. "Oh," Baron Samedi looked back with that toothy smile. "I nearly forgot." He reached into his tuxedo jacket and withdrew a pair of ornate, silver pins. One looked like a dragonfly. The other, a flower of white stones. "These might help."

The Baron reached up and drove one of the pins though Malcolm's left palm. Malcolm howled in pain, unable to escape as the needle slid all the way through his hand and buried into the pole.

Laughing, the Baron pushed the other pin through Malcolm's right hand, nailing it to the wood. "Now, Malcolm," he roared over the rising drum beats. "Now
be
the groom." He drew a long puff and blew the smoke into Malcolm's face. "Win back your lady or
die
."

Malcolm scrunched his eyes, fighting the pain. Loa danced within the large ring, shimmying and twirling. Others, those not mounted, danced along the outer edge, staying clear of the gunman. To the side, clustered on benches, four drummers pounded out the rising beat. Corporal Duplessis was among them.

Swallowing, Malcolm tried to recall Atabei's chant. He'd replayed it countless times, but never could remember it. A tingle buzzed in his palms. Then he could see he her, hand outstretched, clearer than he could before. The silver. The silver piercing him was fighting Gulmet's influence back, protecting his memories. He tried to hear the words, focus on them, but all he could hear was the drumming around him.

"Mayas…notem…mreshti." He shook his head. "I can't."

"Yes, you can."

Malcolm lifted his gaze to see Tasha-Erzulie before him.

She caressed his cheek. "I love you, Malcolm. Tasha love you." Erzulie kissed him. An aura of pure love encased her, not like the succubus' lust but true and warm. "Come back to her."

"I don't know how," he pleaded. "I don't know the words."

"Don't know the words," Earl Warren shouted as he pulled Erzulie back. He wrapped an arm across her shoulder and clutched a black machete in his other hand. It was Ogoun. "I can't," he yelled in a mocking scowl. "Bullshit! You're a warrior. Be a warrior! Act! Do it!" Ogoun smiled and slid his hands over Tasha's body. She leaned back into him, writhing against his bare chest. He squeezed her breasts, and she gave an appreciative gasp. "Do it, Malcolm! Do it, or I fuck your woman."

Erzulie reached back behind his head and pulled his cheek to hers.

"She wants a
man
. A warrior."

"Fuck you," Malcolm spat.

Ogoun laughed, his eyes challenging. He pulled Erzulie away and stepped closed. "Then stop crying!" He slapped Malcolm with the flat of the machete. "You're no root-worker witch, you're husband of Hounacier." He slapped him again. "Bokor!" Ogoun slammed the machete into the pole, nicking Malcolm's raised arm. "Be the warrior!"

Malcolm glared into the loa's eyes, rage mounting.

"Good," Ogoun purred. He wrenched the blade from the post.

Malcolm held back the wince of pain. He felt the blood trickling down his tricep.

"Now do it." Ogoun twirled away, joining back into the throngs of circling loa.

Do it
, Malcolm thought.
Do it.
Ogoun was right; Malcolm wasn't some two-bit sorcerer. Hounacier had chosen him because he was more. He had to prove her right. Closing his eyes, he replayed Atabei's chant above the werewolf. He couldn't remember the words but could see her lips. Malcolm focused on that memory, holding it tight. "Holloo…mreshti. Mayas…karri notem."

That was closer. Malcolm pushed aside everything, the pain, the bleeding cut, the drums, the shuffling feet. Matt watching him like the Angel of Death. He pushed it aside and focused on Atabei's lips, remembering himself mouthing the words with her. "Holloo mreshti. Mayas karri notem. Ohma ahsa…rae."

There! Something twisted inside him. Gulmet was here. He was fighting him. Malcolm had to be close.

"Holloo mreshti. Mayas karri notem. Ohma ahsa ah rae."

The demon bristled within him. The silver pins grew hot. "
You can't do it.
"

Malcolm ignored it. "Holloo mreshti. Mayas karri notem. Ohma ahsa ah rae."

"
I'll kill you,
" Gulmet growled. "
I'll transform you, let that chain cut our throat.
"

Do it. Matt will shoot you in the face the moment you show it.

The anger writhed, but Malcolm kept chanting. The demon's fear pushed him harder.

He continued the chant, his voice rising. The beating drums seemed to fall in line, matching his rhythm. The words flowed smoother. Malcolm released the image of Atabei and focused solely on the words.

A rush of wind ruffled his hair. Then a shudder rolled though him, bringing a sense of weightlessness. But there was a weight still. Something dense and heavy slid though his veins like tar. It thickened as Malcolm's chanting grew louder, becoming cold. The demon. He'd isolated it.

Reaching with his mind, Malcolm felt the coagulated energy at the tip of his toes and pulled it up. It moved hesitantly up his leg.

Excitement mounting, Malcolm pulled the demon's energy up from his other leg, but in the moment of losing concentration, it oozed back down his first. He caught it before it had escaped too far then pulled it back up, inching it in time with the drums' rhythm. Once he'd worked it up to his hip, Malcolm started on the next, keeping the roiling ball of cold energy from escaping. The wind howled in his ears, whipping around him like a cyclone.

He gathered it, joining the two balls as one. Malcolm allowed a grin of triumph. He could do this.

Lifting his head toward his hands, he started working the energy down from his fingers. Then his eyes opened a crack, and he gasped.

The wooden pole didn't end just above his hands but stretched, seeming forever upward, through the heart of a tornado, almost curving at the distant horizon. The wood was dry and gray, lined with deep cracks like some dead, barkless tree trunk or a giant fencepost alongside an ancient and forgotten highway. Thousands of spokes intercepted it, branching off into the cyclone's walls, each its own world, a different band of color. The rainbow serpent. Faint shapes moved along the bridges, some small, others larger than the largest whale. Malcolm couldn't tell if he were looking up or down, and his head spun with a sudden vertigo.

He looked away only to see the floor was gone. The pole descended eternally downward, studded with linking spokes. The circling loa no longer danced on any surface, but flew and spun around him like joyous angels. The edge of the ring had become a swirling wall of light, separating them from the world outside. Drummers drummed, and mortals danced, and Matt stood like a statue, pistol across his arm. But it wasn't Matt. He could see him, but there was another figure simultaneously in the same place. It was tall with icy blue skin over powerful muscles. Urakael. Its silver-black eyes seemed to register him, and Urakael smiled.

A figure stepped before him. He was old, his back hunched. Light glowed within his long beard. It was Papa Legba, but no longer the skinny man with the goatee. It was truly him. Wisdom shone in the loa's eyes like a physical force so much that Malcolm wanted to shy away but couldn't. "Welcome to the crossroads, Malcolm."

Malcolm croaked, the words lost in his throat.

"Do not stop!" Baron Samedi sailed into view. His head was a gleaming, white skull. Orange embers smoldered in his eye sockets like the end of his cigar. Vaguely human shapes writhed in the trailing smoke. "Do not stop now!" he roared.

Malcolm blinked. He'd lost focus, and the demon's energy had almost refilled his legs. Cinching his eyes to block out the sights, he continued the chant and pulled the demon's essence back up.

"Holloo mreshti. Mayas karri notem. Ohma ahsa ah rae."

He worked it down his arms. The demon fought him, screaming and roaring in his mind, but Malcolm continued the mantra. Starting with his forehead, he peeled the demon's essence down, tearing it from his brain and eyes. The screaming stopped, but the growing ball of energy pulsed and kicked in his gut.

His mind finally clear of the horrible parasite, Malcolm screamed the chant, kicking his bound feet. Focusing all his will, Malcolm forced the writhing ball up his throat. It moved like barbed paste, grabbing and tearing, but Malcolm continued to push. He roared the chant, and it inched up. Then with one final surge, Malcolm shoved it out.

Tattered ribbons of crimson flame erupted from Malcolm's mouth. He choked as it poured from him like cheesecloth ectoplasm from a charlatan medium. It surged faster, issuing from his nose and the corners of his eyes. Unable to breathe or see, Malcolm continued the chant. The flowing demon essence finally petered out as the last of it left his body.

Malcolm opened his teary eyes. A pulsing orb of red flame seethed and spun an inch from his open right hand. A single tendril stretched out from the ball and then retraced as the wolf's soul was released.

"Bring the mask," he shouted, breaking the chant for only a moment.

Papa Ghede stooped before him and picked up the silver wolf mask. The one-lensed sunglasses were gone. Galaxies spun within the infinite blackness of the old man's empty eye.

Grinning, Ogoun hacked his machete, severing the ropes that held Malcolm's wrists. Still chanting, Malcolm tore his pinned left hand from the post and reached for the mask that Ghede lifted toward him.

It shocked at his touch, and the demonfire coursed down Malcolm's arms and into the mask. The metal glowed and buckled, but the fire continued to pour. The bestial visage grew sharper as if worked by invisible hands. Once the last of the spirit had poured into it, the glow faded.

"You did it," Papa Ghede laughed. He was no longer the loa but the homeless man in broken glasses.

"I knew the warrior would win," Ogoun said with a nod.

Malcolm nodded. "Get me off of this thing."

The loa grinned then chopped the rope at Malcolm's ankles. Gritting his teeth, Malcolm tore his right hand free of the post.

"Here." The Baron took Malcolm's hands and withdrew the impaling pins. Blood welled from the holes, but Baron Samedi merely wiped his thumbs across them, smearing the blood but leaving them healed. "Jim will want these back."

Paula, dressed in a white and yellow shawl signifying Ayizan, unwound the silver chain from Malcolm's neck. "You made us proud."

"Now for the judgment, Doctor," Samedi said. He set a hand on Malcolm's shoulder and swept the other forward, parting the loa to where Matt waited. A nervous apprehension twitched at the edges of his once-hard eyes.

Rubbing his neck, Malcolm let the Baron lead him to where Matt waited.

"You are a husband yourself, Matthew Hollis," the Baron said. "Come to pass judgment on our wayward bokor. Now judge. Does he live, or do I dig his grave tonight?"

Matt swallowed. He looked at the water bottle in one hand. Its red bead pressed in the mask's direction. He met Malcolm's eyes. Suspicion still lingered. "Dämoren will be the judge."

The baron roared in laughter. "Good. I like you, Matt Hollis."

Keeping his gaze on Malcolm, Matt opened the revolver's loading gate and pushed out a single shell. Thumb on the hammer, he spun the gun's cylinder. It whirred, and Matt clicked back the hammer. He raised the gun, aiming it at Malcolm's heart.

Malcolm didn't break eye contact. He puffed his chest. "Do it."

The gun clicked.

Malcolm released his breath and smiled.

"Welcome back." Matt holstered the gun and offered a hand.

Malcolm pushed it aside and hugged him. "Thanks, brother."

"Yeah," he said, hesitantly returning it. "I'm not entirely sure what I just watched, but it was definitely interesting."

Malcolm laughed. "I'll tell you all about it." He looked at the silver mask glaring hatefully from Papa Ghede's hands. He was free.

"So what's the plan?" Matt asked.

The old anger rekindled inside him. "I get Hounacier back." Malcolm turned to Papa Legba. "Do you know where she is?"

The thin man leaned forward on his cane. "Now, who do you think I am, Malcolm? Of course I know. Let us take you to her."

Chapter Twenty

A moist breeze coursed down the streets, cooling Malcolm's skin. Matt walked to his left, unmoved by the drums and rattles. Papa Legba kept to his right. He shimmied and danced, tapping his cane in time with the rhythm as they marched across the nighttime city.

Nearly forty members made up the strange parade. Business owners, police, vagrants, mothers, fathers, killers, and lawyers. The loa made none of those distinctions in who they favored.

People watched as the precession passed. Some cheered. Some joined for a short while, dancing and speaking to the living spirits. Papa Ghede told jokes and made obscene gestures to some of the women. But he did stop and talk to one sad-looking girl for a while, his hand on her shoulder as he imparted some grandfatherly wisdom. He caught up a block later, grinning and swigging his rum, and again the merry prankster. But the procession never slowed, never deviated.

"What's this for?" one man yelled from across the street, jigging parallel to them.

"A funeral," the Baron answered. "But don't worry, Brian, it's not for you."

The young man's face went slack. Baron Samedi laughed, and the procession continued onward.

They passed parks, bars, shuttered businesses, and homes. The refreshing wind moved with them, urging them on. Malcolm paused from the dance once they reached the canal bridge.

How had they gotten here so fast? It had only felt a few minutes, not hours. Almost a dream.

"Don't slow now, Milky," Ghede called from behind him. "We're almost there."

Resuming his dance, Malcolm started up the bridge. Cars slowed behind them, hesitant to pass the outer lane out of either respect or superstition. Dark drops of dried blood speckled the path Malcolm had taken just hours before, that time to die, this time to kill.

The Ninth Ward was still as the march wormed its way up the dark streets. A few windows lit as the drummers passed, but most houses didn't stir.

A police car sat before the smash-through gap in Atabei's fence. Another pulled around the corner ahead and stopped in the street. Their lights erupted in angry blue and red flashes as the parade neared.

An officer stepped out of his car, hand on his pistol. "Stop right there!"

The other policemen came out of their cars. One of them held a shotgun. From the corner of his eye, Malcolm noticed Matt's hand inching toward the slit in his shoulder back. It was about to get bloody very fast.

Malcolm stepped forward, his hand out to his sides. "Yes, officer."

"Are you Malcolm Romero?" the first officer asked.

"I am."

The gun came up. "Get down on the ground! You are under arrest."

Baron Samedi roared with chilling laughter. "Or what? I know you don't plan to arrest him, Seymour. You're goin' to dump his body and let the gators eat it."

The officer stepped back then aimed the gun at the Baron. "How do you know my name?"

The Baron laughed again. "Oh, I know much more than that. I know everything about you, Seymour Hendricks. I know you sold your soul to a witch because so you could gain a little luck. I know you pay for it every month, giving Atabei the money that should be goin' to your little girl's college fund. And you, Randy Brauduc." He stabbed a finger at another officer. "I know your mama's ill and that you'd do anything to help her. So you sold yourself too. All of you did." He sucked a puff of his cigar. "Do you know who
I
am?"

"Luison," Officer Brauduc said. "You have that antique shop."

"Not quite." The Baron pulled back his tuxedo sleeve and stubbed his cigar out on the back of his wrist, raining red embers onto the asphalt. "But you go to his shop tomorrow and ask Jim how he got this mark; he won't know. But
you
will." He dropped the butt on the street and stood straight. "Now do you know who I am?"

The officer's gun lowered as if it had suddenly grown very heavy. "Baron Samedi."

"Indeed." The Baron lifted the brim of his top hat in a little bow.

The other policemen seemed hesitant, their resolve softening.

"Now that you know who I am, let me tell you boys something. You made a pact with the darkness, and you know it. You feel that shame, but you're slaves to it. Now this man, Malcolm Romero, see, he's here to save you, bring you back to light. And all you have to do is let us pass, and you'll be free. You can stand tall, look yourselves in the eye again, and know that the darkness is over. This….witch." He pointed to the house. "She's crossed us, pretended she's acted in our names. Now, I'm not a man to cross. So you can either let us by and save you, or you can cross us and suffer her fate with her. And if you join us, I can promise you that long after you're old, and gray, and I dig your grave, and take you to the other side, you'll remember what happened when Malcolm Romero came calling. So what's it goin' to be? Will you let us pass, or will you join in the debt Atabei is about to pay?"

One by one, the policemen lowered their weapons.

Baron Samedi turned to Malcolm and swept his hand, gesturing him on.

Malcolm continued though the drums and rattles no longer played. Some of the loa and procession members went through the broken fence, but most followed Malcolm as he circled around to the front of the house.

Light came from a few of the second-floor windows, but he saw no movement within. Malcolm marched up the front steps, Matt at his side.

"Atabei Cross!" Malcolm called, pounding on the heavy wood door. "I've come for Hounacier!" He shouldered the door, but it didn't move. He hit it again and again, driving his weight in. Shoulder aching, he pushed aside the pain, focused on the rage, and hit it again.

Matt grabbed his arm. "Stop!"

Malcolm snapped his head toward him, the anger near blinding.

"You're no good with a broken arm," Matt said. "We'll do it together."

Malcolm nodded. He moved to the side, allowing Matt enough room beside him. "Okay. Ready on one…two…"

The door bolt clicked.

Malcolm stepped back, ready for whatever was about to come through.

A slender man opened the door, and it wasn't until his apprehensive eyes met Malcolm's that he recognized him as Gary, now cleaned up. "She went out the back door."

Malcolm hesitated, but Gary seemed to sense the question.

"It was wrong what she did." A needy hunger twitched at the corner of his lips. He still thought Malcolm was possessed. He wanted to appease the monster, earn its good graces.

Dogs barked beyond him. She'd unleashed the Rottweilers.

Pushing past the demon-addict, Malcolm charged into the house and down the long breezeway toward where the backdoor stood open. He raced outside to the sounds of clanking metal.

Atabei was in the yard below in a machete fight with Ogoun. The obsidian mask in one hand, she swung Hounacier at the loa with a vicious proficiency. Malcolm had witnessed several machete duels in his time, and Atabei's technique, elbow down and bent front leg, showed she was no stranger to them. And while Earl Warren had the soft hands of a businessman, Ogoun had all but invented the art. He danced around, dodging and deflecting her blade, pushing her back. He could easily take her but didn't. He was stalling her.

Three more of the loa and five of the followers, Duplessis among them, formed a semicircle behind Ogoun, herding her back. Papa Legba watched from the side, petting Sogbo and Bade as if nothing important were going on.

"Atabei!" Malcolm roared, coming down the steps.

She turned at her name. Ogoun stepped back, melting into the human wall.

Atabei's eyes widened. Still panting from her fight, sweat glistened across her narrow, ebon face. She raised the mask toward Malcolm as he neared.

He grinned as the realization dawned on her that it wasn't working. "I've come for Hounacier."

"No." She raised the machete toward him. "It is mine."

"She," he corrected moving closer. Atabei stepped warily to the side, and they began a slow circle.

His followers gathered behind him, forming a ring around them. None, not even Ogoun, made any move to assist. Hounacier was his to win and theirs to witness it. It didn't matter. Malcolm felt the bond as he watched the blade. She wouldn't hurt him.

Atabei's nostrils flared with each breath. She was trapped, and she knew it. With a scream, she lunged, hacking the machete. The blade hesitated for a moment, and Malcolm seized the opening.

He sprung toward her, grabbing her wrist and the back of the blade. Malcolm twisted it down as he drove his side into her.

Atabei cried out and stumbled back. She fell onto her ass at the loa's feet.

Malcolm squeezed Hounacier's bone grip, savoring the feel of it. He released a weeping breath, the weight of her absence lifting away. She was his once more.
I'll never lose you again. I swear it
. He glared down at the fallen priestess, his anger returning.

Atabei clutched the mask to her chest as if it might offer some protection. She glared hatefully up at him and spat.

"For Ulises." Malcolm raised Hounacier high, ready to deliver the killing stroke.

"Malcolm, stop!" Papa Legba boomed, his voice louder than could be imagined by such a scrawny man.

He scowled. "Why?"

"Our agreement was to help you reclaim Hounacier, which you have now done."

"She murdered Ulises."

Legba dolefully nodded. "Yes. But you are not a murderer. And Atabei has done more than that." His fatherly tone sharpened as he looked down at her. "She has used our name in vain, guiled, and passed herself off as one of
our
priestesses. So
we
will judge her for her sin."

"You," Atabei said with a hateful glare. "What's your name worth? You were there when Ulises killed my husband. What did you do? What did any of you do? You let him die then you
wept
! As if your pain could rival mine. I can cure the possessions. I save lives. Lives you would take." She held up the obsidian mask, shaking it before them. "This! This is what I did. No one died. No children lost their parents. No wives became widows. So don't pretend that your name means
anything
except death and pain!"

"Those masks only delay the problem," Papa Legba said. "They are only a sleeping volcano, waiting to unleash itself when no one expects it."

"Not if you put it on an animal. Then Hounacier can kill the monster but not a person."

"And how many animals did you slay while you had Hounacier, Atabei?" He shook his head. "None. You kept them both for your own glory. The only time you tried to use Hounacier was to kill Malcolm. But then you pretended it was in our name that you made your gris-gris and worked your spells, taking people from our path and into your own." Papa Legba drew a resigned breath and tapped his cane three times. "Give her what she has earned."

Baron Samedi smiled wickedly. "Time to pay your debt."

The loa descended upon her, swarming and holding her down. Atabei screamed and thrashed. Tasha—Erzulie took the obsidian mask from her while Adjasou pinned her arm. Papa Ghede pushed his way through until he stood above her head, the silver wolf mask in his hands.

"No!" Atabei screamed, her eyes white and locked on the descending mask. "No! No! No!"

Baron Samedi howled in laughter.

Despite his hatred, Malcolm felt a moment's sympathy as Ghede pressed the mask onto Atabei's face.

Instantly, her writhing ceased. Redness glowed beneath the mask, casting ruby light down her neck and chest and filling the eye holes with swirling, liquid light. She shuddered, and loa backed away. She spasmed and shook with that unnatural speed. The mask crinkled and warped, cracking and pressing itself even more against her screaming face.

Fur erupted along her lengthening limbs. Fabric ripped, and claws sprouted from the toes of her slippers a moment before the bestial feet tore through. Bent and broken shards of silver fell from her face, tinkling to the ground as she rolled onto her hands and knees. Her back arched, the vertebrae popping in succession

Malcolm squeezed Hounacier's grip. He held his ground as all but Matt backed away.

"You got this?" Matt asked.

Malcolm nodded. The tingling excitement danced across his shoulders.

She howled, her face lengthening. Gulmet rose, clothed in the tattered and dusty shreds of Atabei's dress.

Malcolm charged.

The werewolf leaped to the side. Malcolm spun as the beast swiped its claws. He ducked and thrust, but Gulmet twisted away from Hounacier's tip.

Snarling, the werewolf backed away and dropped to all fours. Malcolm held Hounacier before him as they circled one another. Drums began to play.

It looked around desperately as if searching for an escape. Matt stood at one end, Dämoren ready. Erzulie watched from the other, the ghoul mask clutched to her chest. The beast roared and sprung for Malcolm, claws grasping for his throat.

Malcolm hacked as he side-stepped, severing the claw at the wrist. Howling, Gulmet slammed the bleeding stump against Malcolm's arm. He stumbled but found his footing before the other claw came down at him. He ducked and moved around the frenzied charge like in a dance then rammed Hounacier into the werewolf's back, up and under her ribs. Gulmet lurched forward, and Malcolm twisted and yanked, pulling the bloodied blade free.