“Like you? Does being falsely accused of crimes run in the family also?”
Kallie stared at the Brit, her gaze icing over. “Y’know, you’re an asshole, and I wish I’d broken your goddamned jaw. Next time I will. Then I won’t hafta listen to your bullshit.”
Augustine touched his bruised jaw, and a rueful smile played across his lips. “I have no intention of giving you another opportunity to catch me off guard, Ms. Rivière. I’ve learned my lesson.”
“Doesn’t much sound like it,” Kallie muttered.
Augustine slid the pick, sheathed in its handkerchief once more, back into his pocket. He strolled around the table, grabbed the only sigil-free chair in the room, and placed it in front of Kallie’s. He sat down. “So tell me why you don’t think your aunt is responsible for that doll or for the attempt on Mr. Brûler’s life.”
Kallie regarded the Brit for a moment, taking his measure. His gaze was level, open, his expression attentive and intelligent. Might be an asshole, but at least he wasn’t an idiot. “For one thing, Gabrielle isn’t even here.”
“She could’ve hired someone to deliver the . . . poppet.”
“True, but Gabrielle is beaucoup skilled and one helluva rootworker. She never woulda put her name inside that poppet. She woulda written Dallas’s name a bunch of times on that piece of paper, along with what she wanted to happen to him—”
“Like drowning.”
“Yeah, that’s right. But to name herself like that and include it inside the trick? Nah, ain’t done. Ain’t like her, either. She’s a healer for the most part.” Kallie gathered her hair in her hands and tossed it behind her shoulders.
Augustine’s gaze lit like a fly on the thin, time-whitened scar an inch or so above her left eyebrow and slanting away into the hairline at her temple. “What happened there?” he asked, touching a finger to his own left eyebrow.
Kallie tried to remain casual. She shrugged. “Fell out of a swing when I was little.”
“Ah. I see.” Pursed lips. Dubious tone. “Well, then, do you and your aunt get along?” he asked, brushing wrinkles from his slacks and watching Kallie from beneath his lashes.
“Sure,” Kallie replied, relieved he’d dropped the subject of her scar. “Well, y’know, as good as any niece and aunt.”
“You said she raised you and your cousin. That’s quite a burden. Did she do it alone? What happened to your parents?”
A muscle played along Kallie’s jaw. “Yeah, she did it alone. She’s beaucoup strong, Gabrielle. And not that it’s any of your business, but my folks are dead.”
“My condolences, Ms. Rivière,” Augustine murmured. “That must’ve been hard on you and your aunt. Forced parenthood can take a toll, I’m afraid.”
Kallie straightened in her chair. “Take a toll? What the hell you mean by that?”
“You read about it in the papers all the time,” Augustine said, spreading his hands out. “Boyfriend shakes girlfriend’s baby to death. Woman drowns children in bathtub. Perhaps your aunt has had a hard time adjusting to being a parent.”
“You’ve got your goddamned head up your goddamned ass,” Kallie said, voice flat. Old emotions she thought she’d laid to rest long ago flickered to life. “Gabrielle’s never laid a hand on me or my cousin, Jackson. And even if she had, what would that have to do with anything?”
Holding up a placating hand, Augustine said, “All right, then, does your aunt hold any grudges against you?”
“No, dammit. Are you trying to say that my aunt laid that goddamned hex on my bed? Are you loco?”
“Given the timing of the attacks on you and Mr. Brûler, I’m simply considering all angles, Ms. Rivière. I suggest you do the same.”
“Listen. There’s no way my aunt is behind any of this. But given the power behind the hex and the poppet, whoever’s doing this is another hoodoo. Not just someone playing at it.”
“But that’s what I don’t understand. Since your aunt isn’t even in New Orleans, why would this mythical, rogue hoodoo bother to set her up for crimes here and not wherever you live?”
“Bayou Cyprès Noir,” Kallie supplied. Blowing out a breath, she trailed a hand through her hair, then shook her head. “I got nothin’. I don’t know of any feuds over clients or mojo or who’s been giving love potions to who or anything. None of this makes sense.”
“I certainly agree with that,” Augustine said. “A few possibilities come to mind, however.” He lifted his right hand and held up the index finger. “First possibility: you and Brûler are working together to frame your aunt for crimes committed by you, perhaps by both of you.”
“Why the hell would—”
“Ah-ah. Let me finish, please.”
Kallie snorted. “Fine.” She leaned back into her chair and folded her arms across her chest.
Augustine held up a second finger. “Second possibility: you decided to eliminate a few hoodoo rivals, including Brûler.”
Then why did I save him, asshole? But, with effort, Kallie managed to keep the words unspoken and just arched a go on eyebrow instead.
A third finger popped up beside the first two. “Aunt Gabrielle sees a chance to finally be rid of the niece—and rival—she’s been burdened with and finds wicked New Orleans not only the perfect place, but a simply lovely alibi as well,” Augustine said; then he frowned. “Although one would think that a nice, quiet murder back home, the body dumped into a swamp to be devoured by crocodiles or alligators or what-have-you, would be much easier.”
Kallie nodded. “You’d think.”
Augustine’s pinkie lifted into the air. “And my current favorite possibility: you truly were the intended victim, your nomad lover killed by mistake. But given Brûler’s near death by poppet-drowning, you aren’t the only target.”
“Duh.”
Augustine lowered his hand and rested it against his thigh. “Now the question is, who hates you enough to want you dead—body and soul? Have you argued with anyone since your arrival in New Orleans?”
“Aside from the usual with Belladonna, no.”
“And Mr. Brûler? Did he also travel with you and Ms. Brown?”
“Nope. Me and Bell live, like, two hours away and he lives real close, in Chalmette, so he came by himself.” And that was another thing. Given that his place was only ten miles away, why was Dallas spending good money on a hotel room? “But I’m surprised he even wanted to attend.”
“Why is that?”
“Dallas thinks the carnival is for fools. We argued about it—”
Augustine perked up. His gaze intensified. “Argued?”
Kallie flapped a hand at him. “We just squabbled, y’know? Gave each other shit. Nothing like a you-suck-and-I-hate-your-guts screamfest or knockdown brawl. I thought he was just parroting Gabrielle’s beliefs, since she feels the same way.”
“Does she?” Augustine murmured. “A shame. So answer me this, Ms. Rivière, if Mr. Brûler believes the carnival to be a landlocked ship of fools, why is he here?”
“I don’t know, and I intend to ask him, but Dallas ain’t a part of this. He damn near died.”
“True, and I find that ‘damn near’ part intriguing,” Augustine replied. Leaning forward in his chair, he braced his arms against his knees.
A faint, alluring scent curled into Kallie’s nostrils, tobacco and vanilla. “Intriguing how?” she asked.
“You’ve heard of cases where a person hires someone to murder their spouse, then makes sure their hired thug also—but very carefully and with pre-determined precision—shoots or knifes or bludgeons them, as well, in a non-lethal manner, of course, to underscore their innocence.”
Kallie frowned. “Yeah, but what does that—” Then it hit her. She shook her head. “No, you’re wrong.”
“Possibly,” Augustine admitted, “but perhaps the relationship between Mr. Brûler and your aunt has changed. Perhaps they are now rivals.”
“Even if that was true, why would he try to kill me?” Kallie shook her h
ead again. “’Sides, Dallas doesn’t have the kinda power it’d take to lay down a soul-eating trick.”
“If Mr. Valin is correct in his assessment.”
Kallie tilted her head, studying Augustine. “Why wouldn’t he be correct?”
Sighing, Augustine sat back in his chair, and trailed a hand through his hair. “Vessels tend to be a tad wobbly when it comes to sanity.”
“I hear that being worn like a cheap costume and used as a mouthpiece by the dead can do that to a person,” Kallie replied, her voice dry. “But Layne seems okay. I mean, aside from losing his clan-brother.” She looked down, grief and guilt tightening her throat.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine, Ms. Rivière. He’s not alone, after all.”
She lifted her gaze, all emotion tucked away again. “You’ve never lost anyone, have you?”
Something flickered in the depths of the Brit’s gray eyes, something as hollow and fragile as an empty bird’s nest revealed on a winter-stark tree, something that suggested she might be wrong about that statement. It vanished so quickly Kallie couldn’t be sure she hadn’t imagined it.
“So tell me, Ms. Rivière,” Augustine said, refusing to answer her question, “what do you think is going on?”
Kallie gathered her hair and pulled it over one shoulder as she considered. Separating the heavy mass into three sections, she started braiding it. “Someone’s hunting hoodoos,” she said finally.
“I don’t think so,” Augustine said. “I think it’s more personal than that. You, your aunt’s former protégé, an attempt to frame your aunt for murder. In truth, your aunt Gabrielle seems to be the connecting factor.”
Kallie went still, her fingers caught in her dark tresses. “I’m sorry, baby. I ain’t got a choice.” She shoved the memory away and resumed braiding her hair. “Sorry, I can’t think of anyone who’d want to get even with Gabrielle. I mean, at least, not beyond a small bad-luck trick or a bit of ill-health juju.”
“Are you certain of that? Your life and—if Valin’s correct—your soul depend upon it.”
“No, I’m not certain of anything,” Kallie said softly. Her fingers dropped away from her hair. “Look, I’m too tired, too rattled, and too goddamned hungover to think. I’d like to get a few of my things, then go to Belladonna’s room. Try to sleep.”
“Whoever tried to kill you won’t stop just because their first attempt failed,” Augustine pointed out. “You’ll be safest in here. The room is warded inside and out. I shall have your friend, a bed, and food brought in.”
“And assign some HA muscle to escort me to and from the bathroom?” Kallie shook her head, the plait in her hair unraveling in a slow twist. “I ain’t gonna be a prisoner. Me and Bell can throw some protection into place in her room. Hell, we’ll keep Dallas with us too.”
“Enough to keep you safe from the kind of power that can kill a soul?”
“I sure as hell hope so,” Kallie said, a wry smile brushing her lips. “I’m kinda counting on it. The only way we’re gonna find this bastard is to let him find me.”
“That didn’t work out very well for Gage Buckland.”
Kallie glared at the Brit. “You can go fuck yourself,” she said, voice low and strained.
“Whether you like it or not, you’re in danger, and anyone near you gets to join in on the fun—blood, death, and all—even if they’d rather not,” Augustine replied. “I plan to question each hoodoo registered at the carnival and check hotel employee records for anyone with connections to hoodoo or voodoo. But if someone else dies because the killer’s spell missed you—their death falls on your head, Ms. Rivière.”
Kallie stared at him, a muscle playing along her jaw. Her fingers curled around the sigil-embellished arms of the chair. “All right, goddammit, I’ll stay here. For now.”
Augustine smiled, then rose to his feet. “‘For now’ is a good start, Ms. Rivière. I shall send someone to fetch your friend, and I’ll make protective arrangements for Mr. Brûler as well. If you’re hungry, I shall have the kitchen send breakfast and coffee.”
Kallie’s stomach clenched at the mention of food, and she shook her head. “Ugh. No food, but some black coffee would be welcome.” Her parched throat made another request. “And water.”
“Black coffee and water it is,” Augustine said before turning around and tugging his cell phone from an inside pocket in his suit jacket.
Kallie listened as he called someone named Mrs. Fields and asked her to bring Belladonna and Dallas to quarantine station 1. Her gaze dropped to her hands. All the muscles in her chest knotted when she saw Gage’s blood staining her fingers.
“Is there some place I can wash my hands?” she asked, her voice small.
“Just a moment,” the Brit replied as he dialed the kitchen, then placed an order for bruschetta, coffee, and water.
Hands still gripping the chair arms, Kallie pushed herself to her feet. Or tried to, at least. Electricity prickled against her skin, weaving invisible straps of nettled barbs around her torso and her arms and legs, effectively buckling her into the sigil-bordered chair like a death row inmate into Ol’ Sparky. No matter how hard she twisted or tugged, she couldn’t pull free or gain her feet.
Panic blazed a path down her spine. “Hey, you god-damned sonuvabitch! What kind of a stunt you pulling?”
“The bruschetta will help settle your stomach, Ms. Rivière. There’s absolutely no reason for hostility.” Augustine swiveled around to face her, dark brows knitted, expression stern.
“I’m not talking about the goddamned bruschetta.” Kallie glared at him, serving him up dead a thousand different ways as she continued her struggle to free herself from the chair.
Augustine’s expression went blank. “Are you actually unable to get out of that chair?”
“As if you don’t know, you goddamned bastard,” she snarled. “Let me go!”
“What an intriguing impossibility,” Augustine said, his voice a near whisper. “Those sigils are meant to trap and hold magic, spells, potions, items.” His gaze locked with Kallie’s. “Not people.”
“Yeah, well, clearly you’re goddamned wrong.” The electric tingling intensified the more she struggled. Her fingers went numb. “Let. Me. Go.”
“No, I am not wrong,” the Brit said. “I carved those sigils myself. To trap magic. People perform magic, Ms. Rivière; they craft it and shape it. Command it. But human bodies don’t harbor magic. Don’t carry it pooled inside the deep wells of their hearts. Nor does it snap along the synapses of their brains or pulse through their veins. At least, that’s the case with human bodies.”
Kallie went still, her heart hammering against her ribs. “What are you saying?”
Tilting his head, Augustine stared at her. “What are you?” he asked.
TEN
WITH NONE TO GIVE
Layne stood beside the gurney he’d parked in the spacious bathroom and washed the blood from Gage’s face and body with warm soapy water. He drew his washcloth along his clan-brother’s stiffening limbs in gentle swipes. He cleaned Gage’s blue-ink-tattooed dark skin until it glistened beneath the room’s overhead lights.
But despite the soap’s clean scent, he still caught the faint, nostril-pinching stink of decay. Scrub all he wanted, he’d never be able to wash that away. Just like he couldn’t scrub, bargain, or magic away Gage’s death.
Nor could he turn back time. Or stop the fucking endless litany of what-ifs.
If only the nightmare had awakened him sooner.
If only he’d run his breathless dash through the hotel halls to Kallie Rivière’s room faster.
If only he’d talked Gage out of the trip to New Orleans in the first place.
Layne whirled and, ignoring the molten pain the movement cost him, hurled the wadded-up washcloth across the room with all he had, a fastball with heat. It hit the wall with a splat, then slid down to the slate floor.
Why the hell had he had the nightmare anyway—a warning of what was to come—if i
t made no difference? What the fuck?
Gage runs in a full-steam-ahead lope past a statue of a man on a rearing horse, his breath rasping in his throat, sweat beading his forehead. Manicured grass cushions his footfalls as he races through the black-iron-fenced square, the spires of a white cathedral looming ahead of him. He tosses a look over his shoulder, panic gleaming in his eyes.
But Gage needs to look up. The sky bursts into flame, rippling fiery shadows across the statue and the cathedral. Gage slows to a stop and looks up just as a fireball comets through what remains of the night and slams into the earth with a ground-shaking whoomph.
The statue, the cathedral, and Gage cease to exist. And New Orleans burns.
Even with dreams brimming with omens and warnings, he’d been unable to save Gage. Just like he’d been unable to save his sister.
“Hold that thieving. lying nomad bitch down, boys. Got a few lessons to teach her after we finish stomping her thieving nomad buddy.”
Layne’s breath caught roughly in his throat as pain shivved his heart, the tip scraping against his soul. Not now. This won’t help anything. Take care of Gage.
Drawing in a careful breath, Layne pushed away his last memories of Poesy and the shit-kicking, mouth-breathing squatters who’d murdered her in a Winn-Dixie parking lot. He walked over to the washcloth and picked it up with shaking hands. Then he stood there for several long moments, eyes burning, waiting for his hard-pounding pulse to slow and quiet. Once it had, he turned around and walked back to the gurney.
Walked back to all that remained of his best friend and drinking buddy, his draíocht-brúthair, the man who’d saved him and his sanity after he’d handed himself over to his dead sister as her Vessel.
Gage kisses Layne’s lips, tender and slow, his own salty with tears. Kisses Poesy good-bye. Poesy kisses him back.
Layne swung the gurney around so he could angle the head of it toward the bowl of the sink, gritting his teeth against the pain in his chest—a distracting physical ache he welcomed. The sweet scent of peaches filled the air as he shampooed Gage’s curls.