Before they’d left the others, they’d gone over the ceremony with Georgie, outlining every possible scenario, though they realized that no one could predict what might really happen once things got under way. And playing the “what if” game with Isabelle’s destiny—with her and Dalton’s lives—had only ratcheted up her tension to the nth degree. By the time Dalton had called a halt to things and dragged her out of there, she’d been ready to explode.
She stared out the front window and watched the sun move over the water, every inch of its descent reminding her that time grew closer for tonight’s event. She dreaded it, didn’t look forward to it at all, wanted to just be a normal woman in love with a normal man.
She hated having no control over her own destiny, being unable to make her own choices regarding her future and what she wanted. She wanted Dalton in her life, and that wasn’t going to happen.
So unfair. She closed her eyes, and for the first time in a very long time, she whispered a prayer for his safety. If she couldn’t have him, she could only wish that he got what he wanted. No matter how things turned out for her, it was about time that she thought about someone else’s needs. Dalton had paid a severe price over so many years for doing something so incredibly noble.
His time for redemption had come. She could only hope she was the catalyst. Maybe after all the bad things she’d done in her life, all the selfish ways she’d tried to serve herself and her own desires, she could finally do something good for someone else.
When Dalton’s hands came around to encircle her waist, she melted into him, needing this more than she needed to breathe. His touch, being near him, was a balm to her psyche. She leaned against him, resting her head against his chest, wishing she could freeze this moment in time. She’d be perfectly content to stay like this, with Dalton’s hands around her, the feel of his heart beating against her back, his chin resting on the top of her head. She’d never felt so relaxed.
“Our time is running out, Dalton.”
He turned her around to face him. “Then let’s not waste a minute of it.” He kissed her, his lips barely a feather brush against hers. She sighed in utter bliss, swept off her feet from the sheer romance of his mouth sliding against hers. She poured everything she had into touching him, tasting him, knowing this would be the last time she would ever be close to him.
He led her into the bedroom and took his time removing her clothes. She was torn between wanting to hurry up and taking each moment in slow motion, wishing she could capture every second in her memories so she’d never forget. As he peeled away her shirt he pressed his lips to her neck, her shoulder, the touch of his lips so reverent it brought tears to her eyes. She sensed this moment was as special to him as it was to her, that he knew as well as she did that they would only have this time together, and then it would be gone.
He turned her around and drew her hair to the side, placing his lips against the nape of her neck. She shivered, goose bumps prickling her skin. He tilted her head up and pulled her against him so he could reach around her to touch her breasts, sliding his thumbs over the piercings, tugging them with gentle pulls that made her whimper. She felt the sensation between her legs. So incredible, so erotic, he knew her body like he owned it.
He did.
How would she ever live without him?
Don’t think. Don’t waste a moment of this. Just feel.
She did—everything. His touch, his hands on her nipples, the ecstasy of his familiarity with her, the way his body felt against hers after he pulled off his shirt. The smoothness of his chest against her back, the heat, the possessiveness as he drew her shorts down and pressed a soft kiss to her right hip, then turned her around and claimed her sex with his mouth. She widened her legs and let him take her, threading her fingers through his hair, watching him while absorbing every wild sensation and committing it to memory. He loved her slowly, sliding his tongue in tantalizing fashion over her until she lost the ability to think coherently. She gripped his hair and held him to her while she rode the crest and fell, rocking against him in unabashed frenzy.
He rose and took her mouth again in a tart kiss that told her she belonged to him and only him.
As if she could ever hope to experience this with anyone else again. She was his, always would be, no matter if they were separated.
When he lifted her and carried her to the bed, she wrapped her arms around his neck, staring at his face, sliding her fingertips along his jaw. There was so much she wanted to say, but she said nothing. Neither did he. She understood.
There was nothing they could say to each other now. They could only show, without words, the depth of their feelings.
He rolled her to her side to face him, lifted her leg over his hip and slid inside her. Slow and easy, he rocked in and out, letting her feel every inch of him. Her body gripped him in utter pleasure, and now it was her turn to claim him, to tell him that he was hers, and always would be.
She watched the tension on his face, the way he clamped his lips together and concentrated on their bodies gliding back and forth as one. She pulled up and kissed him, rimming his lips with her tongue. He opened for her and she found his tongue, sucked it, and he groaned, curling her toes at the extreme pleasure of his response. He tunneled his fingers in her hair and gripped tight, tilting her head back to kiss her hard as he quickened his movements with harder thrusts.
As he ground against her she lost control, bit his lip, tasting his blood in her mouth, but she didn’t care. It was just more of him that became a part of her. She wrapped her leg around him, digging her heel in his buttocks to drive him harder. And when her climax washed over her, she didn’t bother to hold back the tears that told him how much she’d miss him, how much she loved him. He buried his face in her neck, his teeth grazing her skin as he groaned and shuddered against her.
He held her tight and stroked her back, her shoulders, her hip. And still, neither of them spoke.
They’d both just said all there was to say.
They loved each other.
But it was over.
For some reason Isabelle thought the ceremony would take place in the house, but that’s not how it was going to happen. She stood outside along with Dalton and the other hunters, as well as Georgie and several of her family and coworkers. The women wore long cotton dresses, the men knee-cropped pants and vests, no shirts. Even children came along. Georgie had told her that young children were groomed in the way of voodoo at an early age, many to take over as mambo or houngan—the female or male voodoo priestess or priest—when they came of age.
They’d all taken a walk deep into the woods, staying parallel to the bayou. The night was sultry, the moon full, the sounds of birds and God only knew what other kinds of creatures keeping them company as they trekked single-file along a narrow pathway carved into the dense woods. Alone with her thoughts, Isabelle had stayed in step, Derek in front of her, Dalton behind her, all of the hunters fully armed in case the Sons of Darkness decided to make an impromptu appearance while all of this went down tonight.
Great. Another thing to worry about, though Dalton assured her she’d done a fine job so far of keeping their location from the Sons of Darkness. But who knew what would happen during the ceremony? Maybe she’d weaken when her demon went to war with Dalton’s angel. She still couldn’t wrap her mind about how this was going to take place, and didn’t even want to try.
She was tired—bone weary and exhausted. Whether it was from fighting off the Sons of Darkness’ constant attempts to reach her, the lack of sleep, or the utter emptiness she felt inside knowing she was going to lose Dalton tonight, she didn’t know. She’d rather be asleep curled up in Dalton’s arms than go through this. But she’d agreed, it was going to happen, and moaning about it wasn’t going to do any good.
The group finally arrived at what appeared to be a man-made clearing carved out of the dense foliage, a huge circle surrounded by low-hanging cypress trees that seemed to bow down to them in reverence. Wa
ter moved behind them on one side, and there was nothing but woods the rest of the way.
Off to one side stood an altar made of wood, with several shelves. On the shelves were varied items—strange stuff. Candles were already lit, their flames wavering in the slight balmy breeze. There were also framed pictures of what looked to be Georgie’s ancestors, beaded necklaces, amulets, cloth voodoo dolls, trinkets of every sort, bottles of rum, some full, some half full. There was even money scattered along the shelves. A crazy assortment, like what you’d find at a flea market, yet absolutely fascinating. In front of the altar was a circle of dirt, none of the lush green grass that surrounded the rest of the area. Behind the circle lay a wooden pole and a stone bench stained with some kind of dark, rusty-looking material. Isabelle crinkled her nose and hoped that wasn’t where some kind of bizarre blood sacrifices had occurred.
Georgie had dressed the part tonight, in a white flowing cotton dress, sleeveless but covering the rest of her body down to her ankles, one of which bore a braided anklet. She was barefoot and wore a multicolored turban on her head. She’d provided Isabelle with a similar type of dress, only Isabelle’s was all colorful. She’d told Isabelle not to wear shoes, either.
“Georgie, what is all this stuff?” Isabelle asked.
“It is the altar where we pay homage to the gods. We make our offerings here. The altar is the passageway between this world and the next. The place where the immortal spirits make their home.”
Dalton laid his sword on the stone bench and Isabelle swallowed, her throat scratchy and dry. She’d have given anything for a glass of water right now.
Georgie faced the crowd gathered around her. “We will make an offering to Loa, the spirits that gather here. Isabelle will chant with me, protected within the divine circle. She will shed the blood of sacrifice, and be inhabited by those who shelter her from harm.”
Isabelle’s gaze snapped to Dalton, who raised his hand as if to tell her everything would be all right.
“None of you may interfere. To do so will anger the gods. Please be aware that we practice white magic here. There will be no evil, only purity. Our goal is to cleanse Isabelle, to rid her of the demons possessing her. No harm will come to her as long as you do not disrupt the ceremony.”
Isabelle inhaled and blew it out, forcing the shaking fear back. She had to trust in Dalton. They were in it—deep in it, now. She had no choice.
Returning her attention to Georgie, she nodded, and Georgie bent down on the ground and opened a container with some type of yellow granules.
“This is cornmeal,” she said. “We use it to create the Vévé, the symbol for the spirits we call. It is our homage to them. These spirits will embody us and guide us on our journey to the other side.”
Isabelle was mesmerized as Georgie painstakingly created an amazing geometric design in the dirt from simple cornmeal, a series of triangles, spheres, and dots with connecting lines that formed the shape of some unidentifiable creature. It resembled the kind of drawing a child might make, only much more intricate.
“Don’t leave my side for any reason. Within this area you will be protected. Outside it I cannot help you. Do as I say, everything I say, even if it sounds strange to you.”
Isabelle nodded. Georgie turned to the others. “Ready?”
No one said anything, so Georgie pivoted, bent her head, and began to chant in French. Fortunately, Isabelle understood and could follow, though little of it made sense. Georgie made a prayer to the gods, both dark and light, calling them forth, offering what stood on the altar as gifts, and asking for their blessings and protections. She called out the names Petro and Rada, darkness and benevolence, and the Ghede, the powers of the dead.
Georgie kneeled, eyes closed, moving her hand over the Vévé and continuing to chant.
When Georgie mentioned Dalton’s name along with Isabelle’s, then said the gros-bon-ange, which meant great good angel, Isabelle’s gaze shifted to Dalton. His lips curled in an encouraging smile.
But then Georgie explained that the tis-bon-ange wandered, that a soul was lost, captured by evil, and must be caught and put to rest.
Was Georgie talking about Dalton? Or her? Isabelle so wanted to ask, but Georgie chanted nonstop, her hands moving, her body undulating. And behind her, people pounded drums in a slow, soft rhythm, other people chanted, even sang in soft, melodic tones to music unfamiliar to her. It was lovely, really. Was it part of the ceremony? Did it have some kind of profound effect on what would happen?
Because so far she felt nothing. Though she was relaxed, and enjoying the symbolism of the ceremony, nothing was happening to her.
There was, however, something apparently happening with Georgie. Her body moved like it was made of rubber, and her eyes rolled back in her head. She began to dance, her feet digging up a cloud of dust around her. She lifted her hands in the air, her hips moving in a seductive rhythm. She picked up a black top hat from the makeshift altar, lit two cigarettes, smoked them simultaneously, and grabbed an open bottle of rum, taking several deep swigs. She picked up another bottle, moved toward Isabelle, a wicked smile on her face.
“Drink.”
It looked like rum in there. But was it?
Georgie thrust the bottle at her again. “Drink!”
Isabelle tipped the bottle and took a sip. It burned, the alcohol strong.
“Drink more.”
She did, taking several swallows of the hot liquid, then handed the bottle back to Georgie.
“You are the demon,” Georgie said, her voice lower.
Georgie didn’t seem to be herself any longer, but appeared to be channeling someone else.
Isabelle nodded. “Who are you?”
“I am Ghede. I am god of the dead. Why are you here? What do you want?”
Isabelle didn’t know how to answer.
“I’m Isabelle. I have half demon blood. The demon inside me controls me. I want that to change.”
“You wish to eliminate the darkness?”
Thankfully the entity asked leading questions. “Yes.”
“Are you worthy, Isabelle?”
Was she? She didn’t know how to answer that.
“She is.”
Dalton had moved beside her and laid his arm around her. She breathed in his scent, absorbed his strength, relaxing the tension that had crept into her body.
Georgie examined Dalton. “You have fallen. You walk the edge between light and darkness.”
“Yes.”
“This one will need you. And you will need her. But first, we dance!” Georgie, or Ghede, tilted her head back and laughed, taking the bottle of rum with her and emptying it in several swallows. Then she tossed the bottle and grabbed her skirts as the drums picked up the beat, and swirled around the circle, dancing madly.
“Come. Dance. Celebrate,” Georgie bid. “Nothing happens until you do.”
Isabelle looked at Dalton.
“Do what she says.”
They held hands and moved together to the music.
“Everyone must dance. Feel the music. Let it enter your bodies until it lives inside you.”
The singing and drumming grew louder as Georgie’s family threw themselves into the dance. Even the hunters joined in, and soon they were all moving around the fire in a circle.
The music was infectious, the drums equaling Isabelle’s pounding heart as she stomped her feet in the dirt and circled Dalton, sliding her body against his. Sweat poured between her breasts, the heat from the fire adding to the nearly unbearable temperature of the night, but she didn’t care. Lost in the music, in the magic of the night, she felt wild, free, totally without care. She slid against Dalton, reaching up on her toes to press her lips against his.
“I love you,” she whispered against his ear. “I always will.”
He circled her waist with his hand and drew her into a deeper kiss, his body moving against hers in time to the music.
“No, no.” Georgie pulled them apart. “Dance.”
Laughing, Isabelle moved away, filled with joy, her heart lighter now than it had been in ages. Was it the rum doing this to her?
Suddenly she was spun around and she grinned, certain it was Dalton again, ready to pull her into another kiss.
It wasn’t. It was Georgie. Dalton was right next to her.
Before Isabelle could even blink, Georgie had reached out and grabbed Isabelle’s and Dalton’s wrists in a tight hold. She felt the power flowing from Georgie to her, then realized it wasn’t Georgie after all, but some kind of phenomenal force.
Georgie held Dalton’s sword in her hand.
“Now the darkness begins.”
Isabelle stilled, then tried to jerk away. She wasn’t ready yet, but Georgie’s hold was strong.
“Isabelle.”
Dalton’s voice was a soothing balm, calming her tension. “Don’t fight this. It has to happen.” Dalton held out his hand to Georgie, palm up.
She nodded and did the same, trying to show no fear. Inside, she was quaking so hard she could barely stand, her heart pumping so loud it was all she could hear.
Georgie took Dalton’s hand and slid the sword across it, scoring his palm lightly. A crimson line appeared. She took Isabelle’s hand and did the same. Isabelle bit down on her lip at the pain, but it was only momentary.
Georgie laid the sword down.
“Your blood will mingle and light shall find the darkness.” Georgie grasped their wrists and pressed their hands together, mixing their blood.
“Close your eyes, child,” Georgie said. “Let it wash over you. Do not fear. We are here to protect you. Release the demon.”