The Freedman and the Pharaoh's Staff (35 page)

“Fallon, you all right? Sorry, I lost you.” It came from above him. “I found you laying up in some alley. I thought you was dead meat." A hulky shape stood over him, outlined by the edges of a cramped room.

Finally, Fallon managed to rip the twine and pull his eyes open. He swore he felt cool blood pooling over his face. He rubbed his eyes as he sat up on a bench inside a brougham. Just his imagination. Still, it was a struggle to breathe. His heart ached, throbbed, and burned at the same time. “One of—the
Geist
Führer's
—soldiers has—Tempest." His words came out in between huffs of agony. “He—he—he says he'll let her live—if we give him—the Pharaoh's Staff.” Fallon clutched his chest, trying to keep his heart from bursting out of him.
 

“That girl from Baton Rouge?” Jeb scowled, his leathery face crinkled. He opened his mouth to speak once or twice before he said the words. “You know we ain't gonna do that. We can't." He adjusted the saber at his belt. Fallon could see the unease in his eyes, but that didn't mean crap. He still said it.

“What!” Fallon managed to bark. Then the brougham bounced off something in the road, tossing both men against the wall. “We can't—let her die. You—can't do that. It's not fair. You wouldn't let—Keturah—or Bettina die. Look at all—the crap happening—cause you
had
—to see them.” His screams felt like they were coming out of his eyes. They swelled, his face burning more than his heart. Tears rolled out like the Mississippi torrents.
 

Jeb's eyes stayed on the floor. They both knew Fallon was right. And Jeb's expression told Fallon how right he was.

“If this here dark king gets the staff and what y'all say is true, you know what's gonna happen to us. That means Tempest, too." A glance up at Fallon, and Jeb returned his eyes to the floor. Jeb wouldn't meet his eyes, and it pissed Fallon off more.

Can't even face me after saying all that?!
 

Rain drumming on the brougham's roof ceased, leaving the two in silence. Occasionally broken by Fallon's dismal whimpering or the clatter of wheels. Jeb didn't say anything for a long moment.

“Listen here." He offered, his voice soft like clothes rustling in the breeze. “I don't got an idea how this fight's gonna go." He hesitated, keeping his dark eyes locked on Fallon. “I could get mustered out. Lord knows there's a good chance we all die." Another glance down at the floor. A sad realization took hold of his expression, dragging it down in to some forlorn pit. “I'm gonna do my best for you and that girl. If it ain't for you, me and my brother would be dead meat. You didn't know the price of your actions. But you got grit for doing what you did. Lit's leave it at that." A deep exhale, and Jeb climbed from the floor onto the bench.

Fallon nodded, wiping his eyes. They still stung, that imaginary twine clinging to his lids. He couldn't bring himself to say anything else without letting loose the floodgates, so he kept quiet. Jeb was right. Fallon had had no idea of the repercussions when he turned on the Klan. When he fled. Or when he told Jeb and Crispus everything he knew about their plans. He was glad, though. What his father must have thought watching down on him from the heavens gave him a shudder. And yet, he couldn't accept Percy believed in the Klan. How could he? The man took care of a pathetic runt after the war, a Jewish runt at that.
At least, if he died in the coming battle he'd die right. But sure as hell, he was going to fight to his last breath to save Tempest.
 

“Ready yourself, boy. We're almost there." Jeb tossed the healing charm of
Ayizan
to Fallon. “Take it. You believe in this thing.”
 

Fallon caught it, hugged it to his chest, hoping the magic would send his agony scattering. It didn't. Whatever vice had seized his heart maintained its vicious grip.

Leaning back against the wall, Jeb closed his eyes for a moment to rest. Fallon slipped the charm over his head. Then closed his eyes as well, preparing himself to die.

 

 

 

Chapter Fifty-Two

Theodosia and Crispus left Yonkers at noon, heading north toward the town of White Plains. Cow's Head Farm sat on the unofficial border. Theodosia had been right when he told Crispus it was a hard walk. Neither of them could find nor afford a buggy.

The curse of Cow's Head Farm kept Yonkers and White Plains from maintaining any type of road to the place. There'd be no point, anyway, since the soil went bed and any cow milk farmed there soured. Rocks, dead branches, and years of garbage littered what remained of the archaic road. Rain came in thunderous sheets, then tapered off to a light drizzle, then pounded the road again, turning the earth to seas of mud. Throughout the day, Crispus and his guide fought their way across sinking pools.

Crispus staved off boredom by checking his pistol and examining the Pharaoh's Staff. Fashioned from an unusual ceramic material he'd never seen. A foot and a half long, its blue glaze looked faded and caked with ages of grime every so often, then at other times, as bright as the day it'd been made. Intricate hieroglyphics etched on it matched those on the map Crispus stole from the Klan. A stylized falcon's head atop the staff gave it a hook-like appearance.

By noon the day grew dark, black clouds descending as if gathering for the Grand Dragon's dreaded ritual. Crispus sent Theodosia back to town. The man had done enough. Besides, Crispus couldn't endanger his life anymore than he already had.
Too many people have died.
 

After drawing Crispus a crude map to Cow's Head Farm on a piece of torn parchment, Theodosia thanked Crispus and disappeared into the sheets of rain. Though he still suspected "them Klan boys" were looking for him.

Crispus didn't want the farmer knowing he possessed the green cape that made him invisible. Not that Theodosia would've believed him, or even thought anything of a tattered old cape, but the farmer seemed to believe in
everything
one couldn't see. Crispus also needed to secure Lafayette's bag of dust. And needed a chance to look over the scroll with the fear spell since his Creole wasn't the
best. Last, Crispus needed to examine the Cow's Head Farm layout and form his plan of attack.
 

As day waned, so did the rain, dwindling into soft mist. Crispus remained steadfast in his resolve to reach the farmhouse before night. His legs were stronger now than they'd ever been. He never admitted it aloud, but he knew he was a dandy. A soft man, who never succumbed to physical labor. Born a free man, he didn't need to. Not like Jeb, a field hand, who knew it too well. The past months built muscles in his legs he didn't know he had, and sinewy ligaments of steel. Enough to force his way through the muddied trail, over and down sloping hills of undergrowth, and by nightfall, broach the edge of the Cow's Head Farm.

Crouched in a thicket of shrubs south of the farm, he found a field about three hundred yards in length separated the house from the barn. Crispus surveyed the home, a dilapidated monument to a beautiful design. A Dutch Colonial, wore a gambrel roof graced by numerous ornate weather vanes and overhanging eaves with arches boasting floral designs. It was a decaying corpse, a looming beacon of malevolence.

This place is haunted.

Through a starless night drenched in oppressive darkness, Crispus spied a company of Klansmen carrying torches. White-robed figures seemed like fiery ghosts drifting through the night, their torchlight dancing in the wind. Their sluggish lurching resembled the haphazard movements of Tillemont's
zombi
servants. That same sting of
fenwa majik
wafted out from the field
 

No time to waste
. Crispus drew the torn cape from one of his satchels and pulled it on. No way to know whether he was invisible, because if he were to look in a mirror, he'd see through the illusion. He sighed. Then crept out into the field, hoping these monsters believed in the magic.
 

Crispus prowled his way through the field, maneuvering around the Klansmen as they lumbered by. He counted seven in the field. Four seemed under the power of some spell, as they moved without thought, propelled by an unseen force.
Narce isn't here.
 

Keeping watch of the sentry's patterns of movement, the four
affected
Goblins shuffled along the pasture's corners. Also maintaining a presence near the crumbling
home's rear and in front of the barn. The three remaining Klansmen, including Davis, Sheridan's spy, patrolled the inner section of the yard.
 

The wind howled, gusting through the pasture, stirring both vegetation and Crispus's cloak. He pulled the green cape tighter to keep it from flapping, while trying to avoid any loose rocks or sticks. Easy enough to avoid the four
affected
Klansmen not even noticing bats flying overhead.
 

Avoiding the others proved more difficult. Davis paid little attention to anything, but kept eyeing the malevolent barn. Another fumbled over his robe. Fear had its icy grip on him. Crispus could hear the man's heartbeat through his chest when he managed to avoid bumping into the Klansman.

Drat!
The Pharaoh's Staff slipped from Crispus's belt as the knot holding it in place unfolded. He grabbed it and let go of the cape for a moment.
Oh shit!
The wind picked up, snatching the cape from around Crispus. He grasped for it, swung at the air.
No!
The wind heaved the cape away. He watched in terror as it fluttered for a second that stretched into eternity before settling onto the dewy grass. Crispus felt his eyes go wide. He froze, couldn't move, what in the name of all that's holy was he going to do?
 

“What the fuck!” A square-faced Klansman recoiled in shock, eyes on Crispus, with his face screwed up.

“Sakes alive!” came a shout from a bulky Klansman. Dropping his torch, he fumbled for a .44 caliber Smith & Wesson revolver, and pulled it from his belt. A glint of steel was the last thing Crispus saw before a thunderous boom and burst of smoke and flame sent him crashing to the earth.
Fire!
It engulfed his thoughts, then his whole head. Hot flames melting away flesh from his skull.
 

A moment later, Crispus couldn't be sure how long, a boot heel dug into his side. He groaned, blood seeping from his head.

“Git this boy up and git ‘im to the Grand Dragon,” said a voice.

The bullet must've grazed his temple. Next thing Crispus knew, that spy Davis, and another Klansman hauled him off the ground by his arms and legs.

“Y'all boys stay here! We's atakin' him in!" shouted another voice. To the
affected
Klansman, thought Crispus.
 

As they neared the barn, the crackle of flames came
alive, followed by an eerie humming that set his dazed sense alight with fear.
The ritual!
 

With a horrible screech, the aged barn door slid open to reveal a macabre scene from the worst stories of
voodoo
magic. Raging light from a towering bonfire poured out from inside, enveloping Crispus and his captors. The blistering glow seared his eyes, pulling him out from his near-blackout. Flames leapt fifteen feet high, half the height of the barn, positioned in the center of three circles overlaid with demonical symbols cut into the floor. Smoke surged around the room with its own thoughts, churning, pushing itself out windows and into stacks of hay.
 

Between the outermost and middle circles sat a glass jar that contained a swarm of moths, and across from it was another jar filled with a coiled snake. Other bizarre, frightening components lay across the circles. The barn reeked of rotten milk, wet hay, feces, and a mixture of noxious materials.

Grand Dragon Verdiss stood at the bonfire within the fifty-foot encirclement, enclosed by towers of hay, shrouded by his ceremonial red and white robe. Creole words spouted from his mouth, carried by blasts of chill air gusting through the room from some unknown source.

“
Loa fènwa mwen konvoke ou epi rele ou suite pou li akòde m' pouvwa m' aswè a!”
he thundered over snapping flames. Verdiss turned to face Crispus. His hood pulled down, left his misshapen face for all to see. Those red eyes burned in the firelight.
 

Before Verdiss opened his mouth, the Klansman holding Crispus dropped his legs to the ground. Then he barreled out of the barn. He stumbled over his robe as he bounded through the pasture.

“Run! Lord sakes, run!” He let out a scream and disappeared into the thicket of shrubs.

Unable to pull his gaze away from Verdiss's eyes, Crispus stared into the pair of fiery abysses as they watched the Klansman flee. Then they were on
him!
 

“Greetings, foul, contending rebel! I knew you would come and bring me the Pharaoh's Staff with a lack-brain's grace. You are far later than I had expected, but nonetheless in time to witness my ascension to greatness and the eradication of your people." Verdiss hissed, his tongue flicking like a serpent's. He gathered his robe and motioned Davis to move Crispus. “Put him with his sister and the runt." He turned back to the bonfire. Its flames shifted methodically, as if watching the scene unfold.

Davis dragged Crispus by his arms around the encirclement.

Crispus spotted Keturah and Bettina sitting against a tower of hay, bound together by chains. “Keturah! Bettina! Thank God! Are you all right?” Keturah's hair lay in shambles, her face crisscrossed with terror. Bettina, burrowed against her, was in far worse condition. Her long, curly hair had been violently cut, blood covering her head.