Child needs to learn manners. What kinda mama are you?
One that hands out goddamned cotton candy. Go screw yourselves.
Blowing out her breath in frustration, Kallie hurried to the table and snatched up the receiver. Before she could even say hello, an urgent voice—familiar and unexpected and brimming with the bayou—said, “Hon, you need to be very careful. I see beaucoup big trouble on yo’ doorstep.”
“It’s already here, Gabrielle,” Kallie said, her pulse picking up speed. “Can you tell me who sent it?”
“I see the King of Spades lying across the Ten of Spades.”
Jail, imprisonment. Bad luck caused by a man.
“But dat ain’t all, girl. I got a pair of black aces here staring at me.”
Kallie’s fingers tightened around the receiver. Ace of Spades and Ace of Clubs. Death. “It’s already happened,” she said quietly, wishing she could talk to her tante alone. “It was meant for me, but someone else died instead.”
“Sweet Jesus. You all right, girl? Who died?”
“Who are you talking to, Ms. Rivière?” Augustine asked. “I’m afraid you can’t discuss this matter with anyone at the moment.”
“Who de hell be dat? You got one-a dem fools in yo’ room? Sounds like a British fool.”
Kallie waved a just-a-minute hand at Augustine, then said into the phone, “Yeah, a carnival official. No one important.”
“Listen to me—the danger ain’t over, child. I read de shells along with de cards, and de only pattern de shells revealed was dat of darkness and chaos.”
Death. Night. Ancestors. Destiny about to be disrupted. As the meanings for that particular pattern fanned through Kallie’s mind, her blood grew colder. “Mama . . . is she . . . I mean, she ain’t . . . ?”
“No, hon, no,” Gabrielle said, her voice soft and soothing, a tucked-safe-in-your-bed lullaby. “Your mama’s still in Saint Dymphna’s.”
Kallie closed her eyes as relief trickled through her. “So what do I do?”
Gabrielle tsked, the softness vanishing from her voice with all the speed of a yanked-away blanket. “Dat fool carnival’s already done rubbed off on you. Do some protection spells, girl, and take a bath—the blessed thistle one—to wash dat crossing away. Psalm 68, too, girl. Don’t forget yo’ Psalms. Stick close to Belladonna, you shouldn’t be alone. And get yo’ heinie home as soon as it’s safe.”
“It was a hoodoo trick, if that makes any difference,” Kallie said, deciding just that moment to keep mum about the soul-killing aspect of the hex. No need to add to Gabrielle’s worries.
Some one hundred miles and change away, her aunt said, “It might. Is Belladonna dere with you? If she is, let me talk to her.”
“Why? I’m a grown woman and a more than capable hoodoo, and I can craft spells and potion up a bath just as good as she can.”
“Mmm-hmm. Did you happen to bring any of dem potions or oils or incense or mojo hands with you?”
Oops. Swiveling around, Kallie extended the receiver to Belladonna. “She wants to talk to you.”
Surprise flickered in Belladonna’s hazel eyes as Kallie handed her the phone. Belladonna held it to her ear and, after a brief pause, started saying, “Yes, ma’am. That’s right, ma’am. I do, as a matter of fact, ma’am.”
Kallie turned around and met Augustine’s cold gray gaze. “My aunt,” she explained. “She just did a reading and—”
“I don’t care if she just performed handsprings across the Atlantic,” the Brit said. “You are not to discuss what is going on here with anyone.”
“She simply called with information,” Kallie said. “What’s got your boxers in a twist?”
“Aside from the murdered man lying on the bed right in front of us? Your bed?”
Kallie looked at Gage and the sight of his bloodied face jabbed her heart. If she’d just stayed home, he’d be alive, maybe sleeping off a hangover, maybe snuggled up warm against another tipsy May pole dancer, maybe sitting with Layne and laughing.
“I need some air,” Kallie whispered. As she rounded the bed, Augustine stopped her with a hand to her biceps. A light touch, but firm. And one that sparked a firestorm inside, one she struggled to control.
One-Mississippi. Two-Mississippi . . .
“Get your goddamned hand off me.”
“I’m afraid your quest for fresh air will have to wait, Ms. Rivière,” he said. His hand remained right where it was. “You are not to leave the room, not until we get things, including your role in them, sorted out.”
Three-Mississippi. Four-Mississippi . . .
“Get your goddamned hand off me.”
Something cold and dark and ancient like a primeval forest full of striding giants flashed to life within the gray depths of Augustine’s eyes. Kallie’s skin goosebumped.
“Or what?” he asked.
Five-Mississippi. Six . . . Aw, to hell with it.
“Or this.” Kallie hammered a hard-knuckled fist into Augustine’s jaw.
SIX
ROOT DOCTOR
Belladonna Brown, in a red miniskirt and halter top, sashays into Dallas Brûler’s dreams and leans a rounded hip against his herb-and-root-cluttered worktable.
“I hear you have potions to fix up anything that might ail a woman,” she says.
Dallas sets aside his mortar and pestle and straightens. “Depends on what’s ailing you, sugar,” he replies, a smile playing across his lips as he allows his gaze to take its own sweet time caressing the luscious curves and pushed-up cleavage on display.
“You, Dallas Brûler, you gorgeous hunk of man, you’re what’s ailing me.” She hurries around his table, flings herself onto the wood floor at his feet, and wraps her arms around his thigh. He suddenly feels like the centerpiece—albeit a white one—in a ’70s blaxploitation movie poster. Not a bad thing.
She looks up at him with lusting eyes. “I gotta have you. It’s the only way to stop this never-ending ache.”
Dallas realizes his clothes have vanished and he’s standing in boxers, Belladonna’s hands warm against his bare thighs.
Nice. Nude woulda been even better, but . . . hey, this works. “And where is this ache, sweet thing?”
“Should I show you?” The tip of Belladonna’s tongue touches her deep plum-glossed lips, and Dallas feels his boxers tenting as he imagines her tongue and lips elsewhere. “Should I show you where the ache is?”
“By all means, let’s take a look.” Dallas bends and helps her up to her feet. “They don’t call me Doctor Snake for nothing, darlin’.”
“That’s my deepest hope.” With a coy flutter of her lashes, Bella-donna grabs the hem of her skirt and slowly inches it up her dark, bare thighs.
Dallas drops to his knees. His fingers caress her revealed flesh, and he follows the skirt’s path up with his hungry lips. As he kisses her through her purple panties, her hoo-hah suddenly jingles and trills. Insistently. He looks up at her. “Darlin’, you’re ringing.”
“I hope you’re answering,” she purrs. “Please, please, please answer. Now!”
Jingle-jingle-jingle. JINGLE-JINGLE-JINGLE!
Dallas jerked awake. Squinting in the rosy dawn light, he slipped a hand underneath the waistband of his boxers trying to recapture his dream—Belladonna, of all women! But a nice Belladonna. Very nice—then realized he was still hearing the shrill jingling.
With a groan, he pulled his hand free and fumbled for the ringing phone. He snagged the receiver and dropped it once, earning himself a sharp ding! from the phone, before he managed to tuck the receiver against his ear. “You ruined a damned fine dream, podna,” he growled, “so this had better be real fucking good.”
“Be dat how you say hello, Dallas Brûler? I’m sure yo’ mama taught you better manners,” Gabrielle LaRue said.
Dallas sat up in bed, wide-awake, and suddenly feeling twelve and not thirty-two. And definitely no longer horny. “Gabrielle, I’m sorry, I thought one o’ the guys was messing with me.” He scru
bbed a hand through his hair. His gaze flicked to the empty pint bottle of Wild Turkey on the nightstand. He closed his eyes. “Busy night.”
“You need to get yo’ heinie out of bed and moving,” Gabrielle said. “I just talked to Kallie and she says someone tried to lay a nasty trick on her, but it done ended up killing some other poor soul instead.”
Dallas’s eyes flew open. “What the fuck? She was fine when I last saw her. She was with some nomad conjurer . . .”
“Was fine be right, boy,” Gabrielle said. “I t’ought I sent you to watch de girl, not have busy nights. You need to find out what’s going on. I just did a reading and de cards and de shells showed me a few t’ings I don’t much care for.”
“What kinda things?”
“I think Kallie’s going to be accused of murder by dat foolish Hecatean Alliance and jailed. We can’t allow dat.”
“Jesus Christ. What happens if she is—jailed, I mean?”
“We can’t allow dat,” Gabrielle repeated, her hard and flat voice brooking no nonsense or failure. “Now you go make sure it don’t happen.”
“What if I’m too late?” Dallas asked, then added before Gabrielle could answer him, “and what if the cards were wrong about the danger they warned you about all those years ago?”
“Hush, boy. The loa be listening, and dey don’t like being called liars. Neither do I.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I didn’t mean to imply anyone was a liar, just that a mistake mighta been made.”
“No mistake. You be a root doctor, Dallas Brûler, one I trained—so you tell me, how many times de cards been wrong for you?”
Dallas trailed a hand through his hair. He sighed.
“Cards ain’t never been wrong,” he admitted. “But sometimes I am.”
Gabrielle snorted. “Meaning you be human. Me too. But Kallie ain’t, not completely, dat is. You need to find out who died and how, and if she be guilty of it or not, den—no matter what—keep her outta Hecatean hands.”
“Like I said, what if it’s too late?” Dallas bent and scooped his jeans up from the beige carpet. Balancing the phone receiver between his cheek and shoulder, he stood and pulled on his jeans, zipping them up.
“Den you let me know.” Gabrielle’s voice suddenly sounded weary and wrung out. “And I’ll be dere as soon as I can to take care of my girl.”
Dallas’s fingers paused at his belt buckle. Her unspoken words iced his spine. For the last time. “I’ll do my best to make sure that ain’t necessary, Gabrielle.”
“You a good man, Dallas Brûler,” Gabrielle said, ending the call.
Dallas plopped the receiver back into its cradle. Yeah, he had a feeling Kallie wouldn’t agree with that if she knew the only reason he was in New Orleans attending the carnival was to keep a close eye on her at her aunt’s request. And if she learned the reason why . . .
He hurried to the dresser across from the bed and, as he rummaged through his opened suitcase for a clean shirt, his thoughts returned to the long, intense conversation he’d shared with Gabrielle a few weeks ago in the ivy-and-jasmine-draped courtyard of her Circle of Protection botanica in Bayou Cyprès Noir.
“De loa done revealed a dark secret to me, Dallas. One I been keeping for years.”
Unsettling words, for true. But those words had nothing on the ones that had followed from his former mentor’s lips, each word taut and knotted and rough like hand-twisted rope. A rope leading into a tar-black pit.
“A seed done been planted inside de girl, a seed dat can never be allowed to blossom. If it does, Dallas-boy, den somet’ing more wicked den long-fallen Babylon and crueler den hell will walk de earth once more.”
He remembered his own question: “How will we keep the seed from blossoming?”
And Gabrielle’s answer: “You keep it away from de t’ings dat make it grow. Dis seed craves darkness and strife and blood. We gotta make sure it don’t get dem. Gotta make sure de seed ain’t fed.”
Dallas touched his fingers to the red flannel mojo bag hanging on a leather cord around his neck. He pinched it, releasing the pungent and protective scents of sandalwood and five-finger grass into the air.
“Gotta make sure de seed ain’t fed.”
Sounded like someone else had just tried to do the very opposite.
Dallas buttoned on a teal long-sleeved shirt, his fingers working the pearl buttons with record speed; then, leaving it hanging over his jeans, he tugged on his Durangos.
Dallas nabbed his keycard from the nightstand and headed for the door. He paused, hearing footsteps—quiet and full of purpose—approaching from the other side of the door. The hair prickled on the back of his neck. Somehow he had a feeling it wasn’t just the maid with her smooth café-au-lait skin and tight platinum-blonde curls, carrying an armload of fresh towels.
Pulse racing, Dallas inched away from the door and put his back against the wall. He lifted his tight-knuckled fists up against his chest, in prime position to launch a knockout jab or bell-ringing roundhouse swing. He held his breath. Listened.
But the door latch didn’t jiggle as someone tried it, or swing open to admit a furtive shape. No one knocked. Dallas only heard the soft sound of steps padding away.
Well, hell. Dallas blew out his breath and lowered his fists. Flexed his fingers. Maybe it had been the pretty little maid with her cap of bright curls and liquid shadow-dark eyes, after all.
He tried to remember if he’d hung up the do not disturb sign when he’d staggered back to his room last night, pint of Wild Turkey in hand. Unlocking the door, he swung it open. Empty hall. No cart full of fresh linen and cleaning supplies. No maid.
Then Dallas glanced down.
A bucket of water stood in front of his door. And at the bucket’s bottom Dallas saw a hand-stitched poppet wrapped in chains, its red yarn hair undulating in the water.
Chest suddenly tight, Dallas coughed. He tasted bitter wormwood and ashes as water bubbled up from his lungs and filled his mouth. He tried to kick over the metal bucket, but he fell to his knees instead, choking.
Drowning.
The Brit staggered back a step, his expression shocked blank, and Kallie jerked free of his hold. She raced to the door, threw it open, and dashed down the hall for the elevators.
“Are you outta your mind?” Belladonna asked, her voice coming from right behind Kallie. “You can’t go around punching people! Especially not the master of the Hecatean Alliance.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Oh, no, you don’t. I’m not having this conversation with you again.”
“Hey, he was the one who asked ‘Or what?’” Kallie said, breathless. “All I did was answer his question.”
“Girl, you need to learn to use words, not your fists, to answer questions. Did you count to ten?”
“Of course,” Kallie lied.
“Mmm-hmmm. You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t outlaw your ass.”
“He can outlaw every goddamned inch of me. I don’t give a good goddamn.”
“Y’know that’s what I meant, right? All of you—not just your ass? Though that’d be pretty damned interesting.”
Kallie ignored her. Halting at the elevator doors, she slapped her palm against the Down button. The arrow pointing down lit up orange.
“Where we going, by the way?” Belladonna asked, stopping beside her.
“Other than away? Goddamned if I know. I just need to think. You don’t need to jump off the cliff with me. Go on back. You ain’t in trouble and—”
“Ever heard of guilt by association?” Belladonna cut in. “Besides, I promised Gabrielle. Let’s go to my room. Get you calmed down and into something more useful for a walk outside than a pink bathrobe.”
Kallie glanced down at herself. “Good idea, but isn’t your room the first place they’ll look for us?” She nodded a polite good morning at the couple standing on the opposite side of the elevator doors and tugged her bathrobe belt a pull tighter. The couple, dressed casually for breakfast i
n shorts, pentacle-laced tees, and fanny packs pretending to be hip wallets, cautiously returned the nod.
“Yeah, most likely, that’s why you’ll be in the Wiccan’s room across the hall while I grab clothes.” Belladonna tapped the Up button.
“Will the Wiccan be okay with that?”
“Given that I’ve caught him spying on you with binoculars, I think he’ll be more than okay with that. Just be sure to jiggle a bit.”
Spying? Binoculars? Jiggle?
Before Kallie could untangle a proper retort, a flash of movement down the hall drew her gaze. Basil Augustine stood in the center of the hall’s Persian carpet, rubbing his jaw and speaking into a slim cell phone. He turned to face the elevators, but remained where he was. Just watching. And speaking into the cell. Goddamned lovely.
Kallie swiveled around and stabbed the Up button one more time. “C’mon, already,” she muttered. Beyond the closed steel doors, cables groaned and creaked.
“Maybe we should take the stairs,” Belladonna said. “It’s only two flights.”
“Another good idea.” Kallie hurried over to the door marked exit and pushed it open. She raced up the stairs, her bare feet slapping against the concrete, Belladonna just a step behind her. Shoving through the exit door onto the sixth floor, Kallie trotted down the hall, glancing automatically at the gold numbers on the doors as she passed.
“What’s the goddamned spying Wiccan’s room number?”
“Room 632—just up ahead and to the right.”
A woman’s shrill scream raked across Kallie’s taut nerves like badger claws. Adrenaline poured like jet fuel through her veins, propelled by years of Gabrielle’s teaching: Never turn yo’ back on another in need, honey-girl. Help and heal, always. No matter de cost to yo’self.
She bolted down the hall, swinging to the right, then came to a dead stop. Magic ripe with a rotten-egg-and-bitter-wormwood stench thickened the air.
Surrounded by scattered bed linen, a man lay sprawled on the hall floor, half in and half out of his room, his hands at his throat. Water gleamed on his face and dampened the carpet around him, soaked his hair. A hotel maid with long, dark ringlets framing her face knelt beside him, her expression uncertain, a wad of towels clutched in her hands. She looked up at Kallie.