The Freedman and the Pharaoh's Staff (36 page)

Davis dropped him on the floor by the two women. Another Klansman joined Davis, the two looming over Crispus. He scuttled closer to his sister and niece, hugging and kissing them both.

“Wha'appen, Crispus? Dey killed Jupiter! Weh Jeb at?” Keturah sobbed, her eyes pleading with him.

“I'm scared!” Bettina squirming in her chains, pulled Crispus closer to her.

He squeezed them, and lied. “Everything will be fine.” Scowling so they wouldn't see, he shuddered at the sound of magic dancing with the living flames.
How am I going to do this? Get the staff. Fire on Verdiss, and when he's down, use it on him. Shit, what were the words again?!
 

A Klansman reached down and tore Crispus's satchel from him. He clawed at it,
needing
to keep it. But a quick kick to his stomach, and he let it go. Eyes alight with greed, the Klansman pulled out the earthenware staff, tossing the bag aside. He held it up in triumph, flames glinting off the faded blue ceramic. The engraved hieroglyphics and the falcon-head's eyes glowed like hell-fire.
 

“I's got it! I's got it, Grand Dragon!" he shouted, as he strode to Verdiss's side.

Clutching his stomach, Crispus watched the staff cross the room.
It's gone.
That racist scum held it out to Verdiss. The world's greatest evil was about to take hold of the world's only hope. Despair seized Crispus, forced his eyes open, twisted his head and forced him to watch it happen.
 

Verdiss reached for the staff with a malformed hand. But the Klansman pulled it away at the last moment. Greed still in his eyes. “I wants me more money for all dis here witchery.” A nervous glance at the bonfire. “Jud done run off. Gimme him thousand dollars.” His hand went to the pistol at his belt.

Scorn crossed Verdiss. “A trusty villain, I see." His tongue flicked from his mouth as if to buy himself a moment's thought. “Very well, Pierce. Jud's thousand dollars shall be yours.” Verdiss extended his hideous hand for the staff. “Give me the scepter." Indignation filled his voice.

Pierce hesitated, then handed over the faience staff. Verdiss's hands wrapped around the shaft and pulled it close, cradling it like an infant. He inspected its every detail with a fiendish smile. Caressed each symbol etched into the ceramic, watching the way the fire's reflection made the blue glaze glimmer.

Pierce stepped back from the Grand Dragon. Then froze, a look of horror crawled across him. It seemed to turn his limbs to ice.

“Now go and fetch
the others." Verdiss looked up from his prize, glaring at Pierce. He turned back to the bonfire still dancing on its own accord. Verdiss felt the power surging in the Pharaoh's Staff—Crispus could see it. He felt it, too.
 

Soon that monster would complete his devious rite
and use the Pharaoh's Staff to turn the tide of war against the world. Crispus hung his head. He failed. What could he do? There was too many of them. Lafayette's fear spell wouldn't work on a
bokor
, if Crispus could even work it.
I should have waited.
He gave Keturah a sorrowful glance.
I killed them. Just like Lil Juris.
 
 

Pierce gathered his robe and retreated from the barn, seeming eager to get as far away from the hellish place as he could. He vanished into the darkness of the night as Verdiss resumed chanting a heinous incantation.

“
Gwo Damballah mwen ofri ou kòk la ak li lèt ki ou pour votre nan byen pa pi mal pou benediksyon ou! Mwen fè dis ou sèpan sa a nan est respè pou pouvwa ou!
” As Verdiss said the Creole,
the air began to pulsate. It tore the energy from Crispus, softening muscles, weakening bones, and waning his resolve. Keturah and Bettina writhed as if the words ripped the life from them as well.
He's...using...us to...power...his magic.
Crispus fought to keep his thoughts in order.
 

Then the glass jar containing the serpent burst, releasing the coiled snake with a violent hiss.

Crispus hugged his sister and niece, the three trembling at the violent popping. The snake slid across the
veve
to its own death in the bonfire. Verdiss's dark magic had seized control of the very environment around him!
You have to act
. Crispus slithered into his pocket, withdrawing his revolver—but Narce's massive hand yanked it from him.
Where did he come from?!
Crispus hadn't seen the giant hiding among the stacks of hay.
 

“I don't think so!” Narce snarled through rust-colored muttonchops resembling a beard of blood. He tossed the pistol away, then put the barrel of his Kerr five-shot revolver against Crispus's head. “Don't you be amovin', boy.”

He sat and watched as Verdiss continued his dark ritual. In a flash of flames that reached the ceiling, an image appeared. A man's face. When the raging fire settled into wavering flames again, Crispus saw it and let out a horrible cry. It was the
Geist Führer!
His fiendish scowl crossed the barriers of time and burned within the inferno.
 

 

 

 

Chapter Fifty-Three

 

Jeb ordered the brougham to let he and Fallon out a mile down the road from the Cow's Head Farm. He sent the coachman, Christopher Johnson, away with a payment of twenty-five dollars—half of which it took to convince Christopher to drive down the decaying road. Not one for the Golden Rule, he didn't expect any good luck or other such nonsense. But he'd be damned if those racists got hold of his money if they killed him.
A good chance of that.
 

When they left the road, day had already begun to wane. A starless night set in as they entered the wooded hillside below the farm. Steep and coupled with thick shrubbery, it made a difficult climb. Darkness like thick satin made it worse. If surprise wasn't their main advantage, Jeb would've hacked his way through the branches reaching out for them. Instead, he focused on pushing Fallon up the hill. The boy fought like a ripened soldier, afraid to give in to his dying body.

Something ain't right with him.
Asking wouldn't do anything, nor would it deter the boy. That fire burned in him. A fire that burned in Jeb for the same reason.
 

Despite wearing the healing charm of
Ayizan
, Fallon struggled to breathe, clutching it to his chest. Once or twice, Jeb caught the scrawny boy from tumbling back down the hill.
 

“You sure you up for this?” Jeb steadied him with a hand on his back. “You're not gonna be any good like this.” He scowled, not out of anger, but concern. The poor boy looked like he'd fall dead at any moment.

Fallon narrowed his eyes. Tightened his grip on the charm. “I'm—fine. Got to—fix the bad—I've done. Save Tempest,” he said in between pained gasps. His once-energetic voice was hollow, like an old man on his deathbed.

Jeb grimaced at the sound.

A scream sliced the air, echoing in the forest like wailing wind. Something crashed through the underbrush. Branches snapped, fall leaves crunching.
Shit!
Jeb put Fallon against a tree, and the boy drew the Starr pistol
from his belt. Jeb unsheathed his saber and braced for whatever was coming at them. Gunshots would be too loud. He motioned Fallon to holster his weapon.
 

Closer and closer. A branch snapped.
Whap!
It sounded twenty yards off. Closer and closer.
Whoosh!
A wave of leaves came flying at Jeb. He didn't move. Stayed crouched, sword poised for a charge.
Snap!
A twig, a few yards away. He still couldn't see what the hell it was.
 

Crash!
Ready to swing. Too late. With frenzied strength, a man came flailing into Jeb. The two tumbled to the ground. His saber slipped from his hands and disappeared in the darkness.
 

He felt the enveloping robe. A Klansman. “You son of a bitch!” Jeb growled, fumbling to grasp his sword. When he finally caught hold of it, the Klansman was already dashing down the hillside.

“Run, boy! Him akill us all!” the Klansman shrieked, followed by the sound of more wood cracking.

If this bastard's running, something's happening now!
Jeb heaved himself up, sheathed his saber and turned to Fallon. “Sorry, boy, we ain't got time to waste.” He grabbed Fallon and slung him over his shoulder. A grunt escaped the boy, still clutching at his chest. “We got to get up there." Jeb took off up the hill. Not the wisest maneuver. He'd need his strength to stop Verdiss, but his strength wouldn't mean a thing if he didn't reach the farm in time.
 

Jeb's legs throbbed with pain. Every ligament and tendon burned. But he couldn't stop, he kept running, though Fallon's weight pressed on his arms. Soon the hill leveled out. Thick shrubbery and darkness peeled away, uncovering the Cow's Head Farm. Before Jeb could scan the layout, he found himself in a field where a dilapidated Dutch Colonial house and barn sat.

Plumes of smoke billowed out from the cowshed's open door. Horrible chanting in Creole words thundered out in crashing waves of energy. He eased Fallon down from his shoulder. “You all right?” That Klansman Pierce from Allenville pulled Jeb's eyes away from the boy. He narrowed his eyes on the scum standing picket in the field's heart. A torch in hand, Pierce shifted from one foot to the other, illuminating the pasture.
 

Jeb motioned Fallon to hold his position. He edged his saber from its sheath.
He doesn't even see me.
One fell
slash and they'd be in the barn unseen. “You're mine, mothafucker.” Crouching, he started a quick-paced waddle into the sea of grass twisting in the wind. Nearing ten yards of Pierce, Jeb paused. The Klansman turned toward him, torch held high. Its warm glow wafted over Jeb.
Shit.
He lowered himself to the ground. Laid his blade edge-up on the earth, prepared for an upward swing.
 

Pierce shifted his stance again, revealing a revolver in his other hand. His gaze seemed focused on something past Jeb.
Get ready.
Tightening his grip on the hilt, he tensed his muscles to lunge at the Klansman.
 

A scoff and wicked smile came from Pierce. “Stupid, boy. I see you there.”
Click.
Hammer went back, then a blast from his revolver. At the sound of that first shot, Jeb sprang to his feet and charged Pierce.
 

In a burst of smoke another shot popped from the Klansman's gun. The bullet sparked off Jeb's saber. Bullets whizzed through the air from behind Jeb. Pierce dropped into the grass as Jeb swung upward to sever his weapon hand. Pierce was too quick, another shot thundered at Jeb before he could make contact. Lead carved through his side, tearing apart old scars left by the sawbones. Blood poured out, his skin stewing in that too familiar pain of searing metal. Pierce slipped in the grass when Jeb kept coming for him, clutching his wound.

With a scowl, Pierce abandoned his Smith & Wesson and drew a Bowie knife from his boot. “You ain't killin' me, boy!” The Klansman leapt to his feet and swung the knife at Jeb's belly. He danced back, letting go of his wound and nearly slipping on pooling blood. Regaining his footing, Jeb put his hand back to his wound. Battle frenzy took over. The pain didn't matter. Keeping anymore blood from turning the ground into a slick mess did. As screwed up as Peirce's face was, Jeb could see the fear in his eyes—surprise he was still standing. It gave Jeb a moment to size up his enemy's stance, body mannerisms, his weight. The two watched each other. Twisted invocations of
voodoo
from the barn continuing to charge the air with energy.
 

He's waiting for me.
Feeling his hand submerged in blood, Jeb couldn't wait any longer and bounded at Pierce. The Klansman charged him. The two rushed one another like feuding rams about to lock horns, their heavy boots kicking up wet dirt. They crashed into each other. Pierce's
Bowie knife sliced through Jeb's right shoulder. He let out a grunt, but kept his saber extended tip-first. Its blade pushed through the Klansman's gut and thrust through his back. Crimson gore seeped out over both of them. Jeb watched Pierce seize. Eyelids quivering and eyes bulging.
 

“Kill—the—witch.” Pierce gasped. Then went limp on Jeb's blade.

Jeb pulled his saber from the Klansman's body, and let Pierce thump to the ground. He glanced back at Fallon stumbling toward him. “Lit's go." He turned and crept toward the barn, coming to the open door. Then pushed himself flat against the adjacent wall. Jeb glanced back to find Fallon. The boy collapsed against the wall next to him. Holding his chest with one hand and his Starr revolver with the other.

“You're—hit,” Fallon said.

“I'm fine." Jeb poked his head around the corner. What he saw sent his nerves scattering. A horrid scene. Verdiss stood before a raging bonfire in the midst of a monstrous
veve
, tossing in bizarre ingredients. The flames hissed as it inhaled them like a greedy beast. The
veve
, consisting of three circles and a myriad of nefarious symbols, epitomized the nightmarish
voodoo
whispered among the whites.
 

Jeb hesitated a moment, unable to make himself breach the doorway. Until, he spied
Keturah!
Jeb's eyes widened in terror. Keturah and Bettina were bound by chains, with Crispus cowering at the feet of four Klansman. Each man armed with a Springfield rifle appeared like the ghostly devils Jeb had imagined. Their robes flowed about them in unnatural winds gusting through the barn.