Authors: Amanda Stevens
“You wimp,” I muttered in disgust. “It’s just a scratch.”
When I lay down, the room spun around me like some horrible carnival ride. I’d never liked those rides or the sensations they produced, and now I remembered why. It was a helpless, out-of-control feeling.
I squeezed my eyes shut as colors exploded behind my lids. Then, mercifully, everything calmed. The colors faded away. The room stopped spinning. I lay there for a moment and listened to the unearthly quiet.
Outside, the wind sighed my name.
Christine. Christine.
Was it the wind or a voice? I wondered, but not in fear. In the distance, almost like an echo, the drums began to pound. Beneath the hypnotic beat, more urgently,
came the whispered messages from the woods, rippling through the trees, calling out to me.
Christine! Help me!
Rising from bed, almost floating, it seemed, I crossed the room to the window. Darkness enveloped the garden below. The moon cleared a cloud and, for just a second, bathed the garden in an ethereal glow.
Something moved in the shadows.
A flash of white.
Was someone watching me? Or was it merely a trick conjured by the moon?
Then at the edge of the woods, I saw it. The white robe billowed in the wind as the figure hovered in the shadows. One arm lifted to summon me.
Help me.
The plaintive moan seemed to echo from somewhere deep inside me. I could feel the urgency, the utter despair, and I knew what I had to do.
Guided by some unknown force, I left the guest house and drifted toward the woods, unerringly moving through the trees until I found myself in a deserted clearing. A fire blazed in the center, and the sound of the drums grew louder, more urgent.
Damballah. Damballah. Damballah.
The chanting came from behind me, and I spun around. The dancers were forming a circle around the fire—around
me
as they continued to chant and sing.
The firelight flickered over their faces, and I recognized them one by one: first Rachel, then Angelique, Mrs. DuPrae, Captain Baptiste and Jean Marc—all smiling at me, their eyes gleaming with dark promise, their gold rings flashing in the firelight.
“He’s been waiting for you, Christine.”
The voice seemed to come from all of them. I couldn’t tell which one was speaking.
“Who? Who’s been waiting for me? Tell me, please. Where is he?”
“I’m here, Christine. Turn around,” Reid commanded. His deep voice spoke from behind me, and I whirled again. He was standing close to me, so tall and so magnificently powerful. The light danced across his face as he smiled down at me. His blue eyes captured me, held me in thrall. I couldn’t seem to move.
“What do you want?”
He smiled again as his eyes darkened. “Don’t you know? Haven’t you guessed?”
And then, almost as if on cue, the drums began to pound with long, slow, measured beats. My heart kept time as the dancers began to move around the circle, chanting, imploring the
loa
to mount them.
I looked at Reid again and firelight glittered in his eyes.
“Why me?” I whispered.
“Because you are of the same blood,” he said. He stepped back then, and I could see the white-robed figure, as insubstantial as mist, wavering at the edge of the forest. Hands moved to lower the hood, and I stood staring at the face in horrified fascination.
Then I recognized him. He had changed. He looked…drained. He looked like the man who had been in the flaming picture I’d held in my hand.
As I continued to watch him, the figure turned to fully face me. My father’s soulless eyes stared back at me.
CHAPTER NINE
The Fourth Day
R
arely had I ever slept late in my life, but it must have been close to midmorning when I awakened. Sunlight pooled on my face, a warm, comforting sensation that gently nudged me awake. I sighed, stretched leisurely, then bolted upright in bed as last night’s dream came rushing back to me.
Pain throbbed in my temples, but I knew this time it wasn’t from a hangover. I’d had nothing stronger than tea to drink last night. So why did everything seem so hazy, as though there were things I knew I’d experienced but couldn’t remember?
It was a horrible feeling. I hated not being in control. I hated not understanding what was happening to me, and as I tentatively got out of bed, I renewed my determination to find the
mambo
who called herself Mama Vinnia. For some reason, I felt certain only she could help me.
With that thought in mind, I scanned the dresser for the
gris-gris
she had given me so that I could return it to her, providing myself with a convenient excuse for going to see her. But I couldn’t find it anywhere. Someone must have disposed of it while cleaning.
Well, perhaps that provided me with an even better excuse. I could go and ask her for another one.
With renewed determination, I quickly showered and dressed, donning a jade sundress with a flowing skirt, and sandals so bare I almost felt naked. When I’d bought
the outfit in Chicago, the extravagance had seemed such a waste. I didn’t think I’d ever wear the dress or the shoes, but today…today, for some reason, they seemed to fit me perfectly.
I brushed my hair until it gleamed, even applied a little makeup. And as I stared in the mirror, I once again thought I must be staring at a stranger. My hair glowed like a golden halo around my head, and the jade color of my dress made my eyes glitter like green gems. I hardly recognized myself. I had changed, so much so that my thoughts, as well as my appearance, seemed unfamiliar to me.
I rode down the mountain with Rachel again that morning, then used her car to drive into Port Royale. I browsed for a while in the shops, made a few purchases and a few inquiries about where I might find Mama Vinnia’s house. Even though I didn’t know her last name, many of the shop owners knew immediately who I was talking about. The directions, however, all varied to some extent, but I got a general idea of where I was going.
I had to walk and realized almost immediately the sandals had been a mistake. They kept filling up with dirt and pebbles, slowing my progress. It was hot outside, too. The tropical sun beat down on my bare shoulders until I could feel my skin tingling in protest.
But I kept walking. I wouldn’t give up.
Mama Vinnia’s house was located in an area of Port Royale that was a labyrinth of narrow streets crowded with rundown, wooden shacks. The air was filled with the sounds of squalor—crying babies, barking dogs and flapping laundry on sagging clotheslines. The sea seemed a million miles away here. The poverty appalled me, and brought to mind the grandeur of the St. Pierre. It was a disquieting image.
A grubby little boy playing in the dirt gave me the final directions. He pointed one grimy finger to the tumbledown
shack at the end of the street. I crossed the road and pushed open the rickety wooden gate.
No one answered when I knocked, but the door opened with a squeak.
“Hello? Anyone home?”
Silence. Then, through the thin walls of the house, I heard Mama Vinnia calling to me. “Come in, child. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Shades of my dream, I thought with a grimace.
The tiny room I entered was shabby, but neat as a pin. She called to me again, and I let her voice guide me down a tiny hallway, through a kitchen that smelled of basil and peppercorns, to a windowless room in the back of the house.
The room was lit with candles. Mama Vinnia sat on the floor before a low, wooden table as she watched me enter. Crude shelves displayed jars and bottles of colored liquids that sparkled like a pirate’s jewels in the candlelight. Herbs and spices hung from the bare rafters, and on another shelf, a pile of bones gathered dust.
I shivered, my gaze going back to Mama Vinnia. On the wall behind her, a crude, wooden crucifix hung.
“Have you come for a
coup poudre?
” she asked in her lyrical voice. “A
coup l’aire?
”
“I don’t even know what that is,” I admitted. “But in a way, that’s exactly why I’m here.”
She motioned with one hand toward the floor, and I sat down on the opposite side of the table from her.
“I need your help,” I said, curling my legs behind me. “I need to know what’s happening to me.”
She looked down at the table in front of her and began pouring powders from various jars into a shallow, porcelain dish, then touched it with a match. The powders exploded in flame. The sharp, acrid smell of sulfur permeated the tiny room. My hand went automatically to cover my nose and mouth.
“Danger,” she said. “I see danger and blood and fire.”
“You see that in the flame?” I asked with skepticism.
“I see that in your eyes,” she said. “The eyes are a mirror to your soul.”
“And you see danger for me?”
She didn’t say anything, merely waved her hand over the fire. The flame turned from amber to bloodred. I stared at it in shock, then lifted my gaze to hers.
“Can you look into my eyes and tell me what’s happening to me?” I asked, almost desperately. “Why am I having such strange dreams?”
The black eyes glistened. “The dreams tell you what you need to know. Listen to them.”
“But they make no sense! And I…I see things, even when I’m awake. At least, I think I’m awake. Sometimes I’m not even sure anymore. Do you know what’s wrong with me?”
“Someone has put a spell on you, child.”
“A spell? But how—”
“Many ways. Something deeply personal to you can be used. A lock of hair. A drop of blood. A likeness, such as a photograph, is especially powerful. Powders can be put in your drinks, in your food, even blown into your face while you sleep.”
That notion was particularly chilling. “What about a cut?” I asked fearfully. “I cut my foot on a sliver of glass last night, and then I had the oddest dream. It seemed so real.”
“Was the glass on the threshold of a door?”
My heart slammed against my chest. I think at that moment, I almost began to believe her. “How did you know? How could you possibly know that?”
“Ground glass mixed with powder and sprinkled on the threshold of a door in the shape of a cross will bring ill fortune to whoever walks through the door first. The glass pricks the skin, and the powder spell slips inside.”
I listened to her with growing horror. “You mean you think someone is
drugging
me? But I had the dreams even before I came here.”
“A
bokor
with enough power can work the magic on someone thousands of miles away.”
“That’s ridiculous. Voodoo is a mind game, nothing more.”
“Then why are you here?”
Good question. I stared helplessly at her candle-lit face “I don’t know. I’m seeing things. Feeling things I can’t explain. I’m…not sure of anything anymore.”
“Confusion is a powerful weapon of the
bokor’
s. So is fear. Are you wearing the
gris-gris?
Do you keep it under your bed at night?”
“No. In fact, I looked for it this morning. I wanted to return it to you, but I couldn’t find it. Someone must have thrown it away.”
“Someone…in that house,” she murmured obscurely.
“Look, you told me yesterday my father is alive. How do you know?”
“Because it’s not yet time for him to die,” she said, so calmly that my skin crawled.
“What do you mean?”
“Seven days must pass before he can die. On the Seventh Night, the
bokor
can capture his soul, add it to his power. Until then, your father lives in the White Darkness. His spirit roams the night, searching for peace, begging for help.”
“You mean—” Dear God, the figure in the white robe. But it couldn’t be. What she said made no sense at all. Seven days? The Seventh Night? This was the fourth day of his disappearance. Three more days…
“Your father’s enemy is powerful, my child, and growing stronger every day. You must find your father before the Seventh Night.”
I felt hot and cold, shivering all over. I didn’t want to believe,
couldn’t
believe her, but suddenly I had never
been more frightened. “Who is it?” I whispered. “Who is my father’s enemy? You must know.”
“I suspect,” she said, taking a vial of blue powder and pouring it into the dish. The tiny blaze erupted again. The cobalt flames licked at her hand, but she didn’t flinch. “Someone close to you night and day. Someone who knows your weaknesses and will use them against you. Guard yourself well, child. If my suspicions are true, only God can help us. The
loa
have already chosen.”
* * *
I staggered into the sunlight, reeling from Vinnia’s strange presage.
“Someone close to you night and day. Someone who knows your weaknesses and will use them against you.”
Who knew better my greatest weakness than the person who was its source? Reid St. Pierre.
Who would profit most from my father’s disappearance? Reid.
Who had been with me each time, just before I had the dreams?
Reid. Always Reid.
My hands flew to my face, momentarily blocking the light. When I closed my eyes, I could see only darkness, a hopeless void and a foolish woman’s shattered dreams.
* * *
I don’t know how long I’d been wandering around in that impossible maze of streets when I finally realized I was lost. I had no idea how to get back to the main street and Rachel’s car. As I glanced around me now, I began to grow uneasy. The tumbledown shacks had been replaced by seedy bars and restaurants, their interiors dark and menacing, and the gutters of the street were strewn with trash and broken bottles. The smell of rotting fish spoiled the air.
Up and down the street, men stood in the doorways
or squatted on the cracked sidewalks, leaning back against the peeling facades of the buildings. Their dark eyes followed my every move. I began to feel panicky.
A woman stood in a doorway across the street. I started to cross the pavement toward her, but the sound of a car engine stopped me. A cab? Could I be that lucky?
But as I watched the car approach, panic mushroomed inside me. This was no dilapidated island taxi. In the morning sunlight, the black Jaguar looked as dangerous, as sleek and powerful as the cat it was named for.