The Freedman and the Pharaoh's Staff (21 page)

A long table against a wall, covered in neat piles of paper and a jar of black ink, a quill pen protruding from it. Scanning the floor as he went, Jeb stopped. He stood at the edge of a line of brick dust surrounding the table. He studied it, absorbing each crimson grain. “Only one way to prove it.” Jeb glowered and lifted his foot, poised to cross the hex. He hesitated, didn't dare put his foot over the hex.
 

What happens if I believe in this shit? No. Choose not to believe. Make yourself cross it. If you can make yourself survive facing the elephant in the war you can make yourself do anything. Wait—
Jeb straightened himself.
 

Rumors abounded in Louisiana of powerful
bokors
, practitioners of bad
voodoo
who were able to transfer their souls from one body to another as some form of immortality. Jeb would've balked at the idea, but he'd seen the burn on his arm heal itself and Crispus...come to life? Most poignant, he couldn't cross the hex, or couldn't make himself
try
to cross the hex. Nathaniel kept his enemies out, whether Jeb was tricking himself or not, he didn't know.
 

“I think y'all better come see this," Jeb called out. Crispus and Fallon appeared from the stacks, followed by the dwarf. “See the brick dust." He pointed to the hex. “That's meant to keep your enemies out. I think this Nate got someone's soul in him that ain't his.”

Crispus nodded. “We should find this man's house and retrieve the book. Cornelius, where does he live?” He turned to the dwarf, still tugging on his beard.

“Is that what that dirt is? Hmm . . . never paid it much attention—” Cornelius folded his hands behind his back when he met Jeb's glare. “Oh, sorry. He lives on East 79
th
Street, north of here, on the Upper East Side. I believe it's 681.”
 

Jeb scowled and turned to Crispus. “We're gonna need that cloak again."

“I suppose so.
e
And I know what you're thinking. I am not a thief." Crispus furrowed his brow.
 

Shit, haven't thought of that in a while
. Jeb itched his stubble, then cracked a smile. “Nah. That doesn't matter no more. Besides, you ended up doing the right thing. I suppose the war never ended. This is just another battle to get our freedom. You just knew it ahead of me.”
 

A look of joy flashed across Crispus. His eyes sparkled and his smile widened as though it were Christmas. Jeb patted him on the shoulder. “Don't let that think you've faced the elephant yet. Thievery isn't war—neither is getting whooped or chased off.” He turned and strode into the stacks.
 

“Better go after him,” came Cornelius's muffled voice.

Five minutes later Jeb found his way out onto the street, lit by rows of gas lamps. He watched the flames dance in the glass, looking like miniscule suns. Crispus and Fallon ambled down the stairs.

“We'll walk,” said Jeb, still gazing at the array of suns keeping darkness at bay. If only they kept the cold away, he thought, tightening his coat around him.

“Why?” asked Crispus.

Fallon gasped. “A coach will make too much of a rattle, right?”

Jeb nodded. “The last thing we need is this Nathaniel Calderon or whoever the hell's in him hearing us comin'...”

 

 

Chapter Thirty-Five

A cruel, self-serving, and perfidious man (his own words), Tillemont Darkwa kept himself alive for the past one hundred and seventy years. Forty-three of those were spent in his own body. When forced to abandon his own, he preferred to take men as vessels, but out of necessity he'd taken several women. A most disturbing and uncomfortable experience.

A compulsive fear of death drove Tillemont to spend his first thirty years of life to perfecting the
voodoo
ritual of possession.  He was well aware of this fear, but admitted it to no one. However, the fact most people, or white people, didn't understand
voodoo
possession made it that much easier to take them. No demons, devils or monsters invaded the victim, seizing power over their soul. No,
voodoo
possession allowed Tillemont to transfer his soul into his victim's body. Their soul? Well,
if
it managed to find its way into Tillemont's defunct body—he had enough time while they were confused by the transference to end them. A few moments of strangulation. Never a cut, or slash, or bludgeon. Too messy, and the blood wouldn't come out of his clothes.
 

Money. Power. Beauty. These were the most important traits Tillemont looked for in a victim. Vessels needed to be of good looks, high social status, and affluent. If he were going to live forever, which he was, it would
not
be as an ugly poor man.
 

Paxton Turner, a dandy lawyer, had been the previous victim of Tillemont's desire. Wealthy, powerful, and striking enough. Of course, as always, and much to his disappointment, he grew bored with Paxton. New possessions seemed to stale the day after he took them.
You should stop being a little pig, Tillemont
.
Paxton could have last a good while.
But however much money, high in society, or handsome a victim was, Tillemont needed better. The perfect man was out there, somewhere. Waiting for him like the ripe apple waited for Eve on the tree branch.
 

Nathaniel Calderon, his current host, was a prosperous
and eye-catching scholar of archaeology and cultural anthropology, who came to New Orleans in search of relics for a newly founded museum. Tillemont lured him to Paxton's—now his—mansion in the French Quarter with the promise of the Damballah's Tear. A religious artifact, a thieving
mambo
smuggled the Tear into Louisiana from Haiti to sell for her daughter's freedom. What happened to the
mambo
and her daughter, Tillemont didn't know or care.
 

Nathaniel came and met with Tillemont, in possession of Paxton. Tillemont subdued Nathaniel with ease using a glass of wine mixed with mashed mistletoe berries. A potent mix, which causes hallucinations. He restrained the scholar within the proper
veve
drawn on the floor of his parlor, and encircled by salt. A valuable
voodoo
imprisonment hex. Within minutes, Tillemont finished the ritual, forcing Nathaniel's soul from his body and into oblivion. He belonged to Tillemont now.
 

There was a brusque knock at the door. Tillemont looked up from his parlor chair. He gave a gruff sigh. Then glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. It read five minutes after ten.
Who dares disturb me at this hour?
Closing the copy of
A Tale of Two Cities
he was reading, he positioned it on the coffee table in front of him.
Perfect.
It looked magnificent even on the tabletop.
 

“People are so rude these days.” Tillemont stood, dressed in Nathaniel's finest navy blue suit with matching waistcoat and trousers. He stopped by the mirror for a moment, ignoring another heated knock. Whoever it was could wait for Tillemont to make certain he looked his best. He studied his young, shaved face, high cheekbones, strong jaw, and symmetrical features.
Good-looking enough, but this auburn hair doesn't fit these green eyes.
He grunted.
You're doing it again
.
 

Another knock, this time more of a pound.

“Who are you to rush me, you—” Tillemont flung the door open. He fell silent, eyeing the visitor on his doorstep. Even standing in the shadows of the street lamps he looked familiar. His body, the way he stood and that hate oozing from him. “Identify yourself at once!” Tillemont already knew who stood on his doorstep.
 

Verdiss, draped in his flowing black robe, with the hood drawn to cover his malformed face, stepped into the light pouring out from the house. “Dear Tillemont Darkwa, I recognize that imperious tone anywhere. The new skin suits you.” Verdiss sneered. “Are you going to invite me in?” His voice was filled with scorn.

“Of course. Come in, child.” Tillemont stepped aside to let Verdiss enter. “As for the white man, I find it less troublesome than the body of a black man, though he can never get my dialect right.”

Verdiss scanned the parlor, his red eyes intent on every piece of furniture—the Boston rocking chair stenciled with gilt designs, the rare Oriental carpeting, the grandfather clock, and a host of cushioned chairs. “You have done well with this one." He stepped further into the room.

Tillemont closed the door and turned to face his son. “That is the point, child. Something you never understood.”

He felt Verdiss scowl. “Nevertheless, I have not come to reminisce about my childhood, Tillemont. I have come for the Dragon's Blood, assuming you have not given it to some whore over fleeting affections." Verdiss seemed to tremble, his voice bitter and...jealous?

Tillemont cracked a smile. The invalid had good reason to be jealous, but still. His child's pain pained him. “Child. Child.” Tillemont sighed. He sat down in a cushioned chair. “Perhaps if you had more women in your life, you would not be filled with contempt for our kind—it is
our
kind,” he said, cutting Verdiss off before he could protest. “I raised you as my son, teaching you the
fenwa majik
. You excelled at it. You are intelligent and driven, overcoming the tragedy your father put upon you. Still, you deny what you
really
are.” Tillemont folded his arms over his chest and leaned back in his seat. Verdiss's stance betrayed his rage. Each breath he released smelled of brimstone. But Tillemont knew Verdiss wouldn't challenge him. His fifty years couldn't compare to Tillemont's hundred and seventy.
 

“Damballah's Tear," Verdiss growled, not dignifying Tillemont with a response.

No matter, he concentrated and his son's thoughts opened to him like his copy of
A Tale of Two Cities
.
He's right. This filthy curse saw to it—you will never have a woman. Your personality must not help. All you feel is rage, vengeance, loneliness, and sorrow. They sank their vicious teeth into you like a starved man taking the first bite of food. Power will cure your heart, as Tillemont's voodoo rituals
strengthened your malformed body. With power, they will all respect, awe, revere, and love you. Not fear and disgust you.
 

Tillemont withdrew from Verdiss's thoughts. Too depressing. He rubbed his still-alien finger along the line of his jaw. It cheered him up. At least he didn't look like a monster. “Anyway, I have the Damballah's Tear." He pulled a small cloth bag from beneath his seat, drawing the gore-colored gem from the sack. Both men felt the tickle of its warm aura.

“I know you feel its power, eh, child?” Tillemont held the gem in his youthful hands, rubbing its smooth surface. “Yet I suspect you will take no true joy from it. Appreciate the richness of it.” He turned the stone over again and again, its warmth growing hotter against his flesh. A seductive pain.

“Then,
father,
tell me its history. Perhaps
then
I will enjoy it.” Verdiss flashed a glare as if to challenge him.
 

Tillemont snorted. “Decades later and I am still teaching our ways and mythos.” In truth, Verdiss's request sparked a sense of wistfulness in him. If he'd known his child would have become such a hatemongering madman he'd have left him to rot in La Croix's basement. To think he raised a black man to be a Klansman ripped his heart agape. He failed as a father and as man. Hiding in white men is far different than wanting to murder them because of their color. Isn't it?

“Well?” Verdiss growled.

“All right, child.” Tillemont sighed, and stopped turning the gem in his hands. He looked up at Verdiss, pensiveness crawling inside him. Holding up the Damballah's Tear, a six inch long piece of red amber shaped like a teardrop, Tillemont scowled.
Why is it so important to this bigot? If he wants it so badly I should be keeping it away from him. That devil has some terrible plot against our own people.
But alas, he is my child.
 

“You know—I hope you know, Damballah is the loa of serpents, a god of creation. This wonderful artifact is a piece of Damballah's scales cut loose. Thus its moniker, the "Dragon's Blood."

Silence. Verdiss didn't move, yet seemed unimpressed. “I am to enjoy that
richness
? A wives' tale spoken among jackanapes who can't understand the
majik
? That is why
your
kind is at an end. Lost in ignorant fantasies they are unable to compete in the world.”
 

“No, child,” said Tillemont, observing the gem. “History...culture...whatever you want to call it. It keeps our people alive, keeps us thriving against even the most ruthless attempts of oppression. We survived slavery by keeping who we are. The Jews have done the same for thousands of years. Through great holocausts, inquisitions, and dissolutions.”

Verdiss scoffed and stepped toward Tillemont. His hand outstretched for the Dragon's Blood.

Tillemont pulled the gem to his chest. “Laugh all you want, child. Whatever you have planned will not succeed. How can it? You cannot win an external struggle when you are consumed by an internal one. Accept who you are, child.” He held the stone out for Verdiss, studying his twisted features.
Still as handsome as ever
. “We gave you such a gift, and you've spoiled it on your rotten bigotry...” Tillemont couldn't bare to continue without sobbing like a woman. He'd been enough women that it shamed him less. But still enough to stifle himself.