“Hellfire. That can’t be true. It can’t!”
“Sounds like Jean-Julien’s doing. He lived in Chacahoula.”
“Uhhh … Where am I? Cash?”
“Sweet Jesus. Dey buried de boy? You saying Jackson be dead?”
Kallie stared at Cash, blood roaring in her ears. “You’re fulla shit,” she snarled, hoping the bastard was just fucking with her, but she saw truth, malicious and raw, in his eyes, his smug half-smile.
Kallie caught a flash of peripheral movement as Belladonna shifted her aim, the shotgun barrel sighting on Cash’s sweat-gleaming forehead.
“Is he?” Belladonna asked, voice strained. “Dead?”
“Let’s put it this way,” Cash replied. “Jackson was still breathing when they planted him. But,” he shrugged, “it’s been hours, so …”
Dread punched a cold knife into Kallie’s heart and stole her breath away.
Jacks had been buried alive, and this bastard had just sat back and watched as dirt had been shoveled over his head. Hell, he’d probably even had himself a nice cold beer as he took in the show. Then he and his good ol’ buddy Kerry had left Jackson there, alive in his makeshift grave.
Hours ago.
“Gotta go. See you on Sunday. Love ya.”
Red stained Kallie’s vision as she leveled her gaze on Cash. All the dark mirth drained from his face at whatever he saw in her eyes. He straightened, muscles bunching along his shoulders.
“Hey, it ain’t like we fucking buried him,” he protested.
Kallie was moving before her brain caught up with her actions. Jerking the shotgun from Belladonna’s grasp, Kallie shoved past her startled friend and jammed the barrel hard underneath Cash’s chin, the muzzle imprinting itself onto his whiskered flesh.
“An eye for an eye is never enough,” Doctor Heron whispers.
Alarmed shouts arrowed through the air, hitting their target, but missing the bull’s-eye—the words meant nothing to Kallie, didn’t apply to her.
“Don’t kill him, girl! Not yet!”
“Easy now, Shug.”
“Jesus Christ! Oh, holy Mary! She’s gonna kill Cash! Stop her!”
Kallie’s heart drummed a fierce, primal rhythm. Her finger twitched against the trigger. Cash’s breath caught rough in his throat and he squeezed his eyes shut. Sweat beaded his forehead. She could see each whisker on his face, each smear of blood from his swelling nose. He reeked, ripe with sweat and sour fear and copper tang.
“You left him there in the ground, you fi’ de garce,” Kallie rasped from a throat almost too tight for speech. “You left him.”
“She’s gonna blow Cash’s brains out,” Kerry groaned. “Oh, Jesus—”
“Hush, you,” Divinity snapped. “How dare you call on holy names after you done left my boy alive in a grave. You got nerve, you. Jesus gonna come down and kick yo’ sorry ass if you call on him one mo’ time. And if he don’t, I surely will.”
“When was Jacks buried, exactly?” Kallie asked, shoving the shotgun’s muzzle deeper into the underside of Cash’s chin, forcing his head up and back. “How long ago?”
Cash swallowed hard, then opened his eyes. He wrapped one gloved hand around the shotgun’s barrel as though he could stop a shell with his touch, his curled fingers a prayer for mercy, or as though he were adjusting Kallie’s aim:
Here. Please make sure you do it right so I don’t end up a vegetable waiting for someone to have enough guts to unplug me from the respirator.
“Think you can yank it away before I pull the goddamned trigger?” Kallie said. “Try it, if the last thing you ever want to see in this life is my face.”
“Kallie … Shug …” Belladonna’s voice was low, uncertain. Kallie ignored it.
Cash’s pupils contracted to pinpoints. His fingers remained locked around the barrel, leather glove creaking, his arm taut, muscles corded.
“When was Jacks buried? How fucking long ago?”
“Ain’t sure, exactly,” Cash grated. “They grabbed him shortly after dark.”
“It’s an hour’s drive to Chacahoula,” Gabrielle said, her words spreading through the silent room like raindrops ripple across a still pond.
No one wanted to be the first to say what they were all thinking—what Kallie knew she was thinking: Jackson had been in the ground at least seven or eight hours. How long would his oxygen—if any at all had been trapped with him—have lasted?
“Hellfire,” Belladonna whispered.
King of spades. Queen of spades. Five of spades.
Bad luck. Delays. Setbacks. Defeat.
No. She refused to lose Jackson. She refused to believe he’d survived the hurricane that had killed his parents and sisters nine years ago—the same year her mama had murdered her papa, and nearly killed Kallie as well—only to suffocate to death inside the earth because a vengeance-fueled hoodoo man had mistaken her aunt for another woman.
Besides, she’d made a promise. Love ya back, and I’m goddamned holding you to Sunday, Jacks.
Cash’s figure—knotted and wary-eyed—blurred in Kallie’s vision and she blinked her stinging eyes until the sonuvabitch was in focus once more. “I say we give him to the gators. Alive.”
Cash’s eyes widened. His gloved hand flexed around the shotgun barrel. “Look,” he said, desperation edging his voice, “your cousin brought this on himself. It’s just the consequences of his own actions finally catching up to him, and y’all are blaming us. And that ain’t right.”
“I have every right to blame you for breaking into my aunt’s house and for leaving my cousin in a grave,” Kallie said. “And I don’t think what happened to Jacks had anything to do with his … work.”
Cash snorted. “Work. Ain’t that a sweet word for stealing.”
Kallie shoved the muzzle of the shotgun harder into Cash’s chin. “Well, ain’t that the pot calling the kettle black? What’s your line of work? Dope dealer? Art thief? Identity hacker? Pimp? Home invasion specialist?”
“Not that last one,” Belladonna said. “He kinda sucks at it.”
Kallie nodded. “That he does.”
Divinity’s fragrance of lavender and sandalwood announced her aunt’s presence even before she spoke. “Step aside, Kallie-girl. I got a few words for dis dirt-grubbing worm, me.”
Blowing out a breath, Kallie reluctantly eased the shotgun muzzle from Cash’s flesh and stepped back as Divinity planted herself in front of the man. Looking at the gun in her white-knuckled hands, Kallie felt sick.
I woulda done it. Woulda pulled the trigger. Just like Mama.
“Maybe you’d better hold this,” she said, fighting to keep the muscles in her arms from shaking as she extended the shotgun to Belladonna.
“That’s what he said,” Belladonna said with a wink, accepting the weapon. “But since you ruined one of my nails when you yanked that damned gun out of my hands, you owe me a manicure, Shug. And dessert of my choice at Mama’s House of Cake.”
“The manicure, sure,” Kallie agreed, wiping her palms against her cutoffs. “But cake?”
“Mmm-hmm. For pain and suffering.”
Kallie rolled her eyes. “Fine. Cake it is.”
“Now,” Belladonna said, slipping to the side and aiming the shotgun at Cash’s temple, all teasing amusement gone from her face. “Let’s bring Jackson home.”
Kallie’s throat constricted, and she nodded, not trusting her voice, clenching her hands into fists, not trusting her body to keep still either as her aunt looked Cash up and down, then shook her head in disgust.
“No, dey sure as hell don’t make men like dey used to. You’re gonna stop with de nonsense and show us where Jackson be,” Divinity declared, emphasizing each word with a poke of her finger into Cash’s chest. “You don’t tell us de truth, I’m gonna hand-feed you to de gators, starting with yo’ tender bits.”
The defiance drained out of Cash like coolant from a bad radiator. He looked away, jaw working, then said, “Fine, I’ll draw y’all a map, but I don’t kn
ow what good it’ll do. He’s been in—”
Divinity stopped his words with another hard-fingered poke against his chest. “You say it and I’m gonna trick yo’ insides up with snakes.”
Cash’s face paled. “I told you. I don’t believe in that juju bullshit.”
Another poke. “You don’t need to believe in it, boy, for it to work. We be talking hoodoo, not wishing yo’self and yo’ little dog home to Kansas with yo’ ruby slippers.”
“Forget drawing us a goddamned map,” Kallie cut in, earning Cash’s glowering gaze. “You’re gonna guide us out there, tout de suite.”
“Oui, c’est une bonne idée, girl,” Divinity said, her voice tight. She gave Cash’s chest another poke. “And you ain’t gonna waste one more second since de trip over dere will mean anudder hour in de ground for my boy.” She glanced at Kallie from over her shoulder. “De sand’s almost run through for Jackson.” She looked away, blinking, and Kallie knew what she was thinking: If it hasn’t already.
Kallie’s heart contracted, a hard pulse of pain. She wished they could rocket to Chacahoula at warp speed or teleport themselves à la Star Trek. She thought of Layne Valin, the gorgeous nomad with the waist-length honey-blond dreads and lean, sexy body, redlining it back to New Orleans on his Harley. It hadn’t been that long since he’d left the house—he might not be too far away.
“Layne could get me to Chacahoula in less than an hour,” Kallie said. “I can call him and—”
Divinity gave a soft sigh, one laced with regret. “No, Kallie-girl, let dat boy be. Let him return to his clan. He’s got burdens enough, him. We don’t need to be adding to dem.” She shook her head. “Been years and years since I met a Vessel for de dead. Even longer since I met one who had all o’ his cups in de cupboard.”
A Vessel for the dead. Layne was a living, breathing spirit cabinet and, at the moment, he was carrying a ghost inside as passenger and copilot—the shade of the murdered Lord Basil Augustine, the man who’d taken a bullet intended for her.
And who’d forced his spirit upon Layne while the nomad was still reeling from the loss of his best friend, Gage, to a hex meant for Kallie.
A sharp pang of guilt knifed her. All of Layne’s burdens and grief were due to her and as much as she liked Layne and hungered to get to know him better—much, much better—she knew her tante was right. Layne Valin would be safer the farther away from her he traveled.
Divinity poked her finger into Cash’s chest once more. “Let’s get movin’, boy. You gonna show us exactly where Jackson be.”
“I ain’t going nowhere with that little hellcat,” Cash declared, the old defiance flaring in his eyes and making an encore performance as he glared at Kallie. “She broke my fucking nose.”
Kallie folded her arms under her breasts and shifted her weight onto one hip. “So says the man who barged into our house in a ski mask waving a shotgun around. So wah-fucking-wah, you big baby.”
Belladonna snorted. Cash’s eyes narrowed to slits. His jaw tightened, but he wisely elected to keep any more comments to himself.
“I’ll show you where your nephew is, ma’am,” Kerry said quietly, his voice coming from floor level. “Ain’t no need to give nobody to the gators or throw around any nasty tricks. I’ll do it if you promise to let us go afterwards.”
“Deal,” Kallie said before Divinity could even open her mouth, then turned around to see Gabrielle kneeling behind Kerry, her red-scarfed head bowed as she finished binding his wrists with a length of rough rope—Jackson’s rope. That felt more than a little karmic.
“But,” Kallie continued, “you gotta give your word that neither of you will come near Jackson or any of us again.”
Gabrielle had yanked off Kerry’s ski mask and his short brown hair stuck up in sweat-gelled spikes all around his head. He looked scared and younger than the twenty-five or so Kallie pegged him at. He nodded. “Deal,” he agreed.
Cash shook his head in disgust. “They ain’t gonna let us go, asswipe. We’re gonna end up taking Bonaparte’s place in that grave.”
“Dat’s it,” Divinity declared. “My patience be at an end with you, boy. I’ve had just about enough of yo’ bitter and angry words.” Dipping a hand into a pocket of her Gypsy-style skirt, she pulled out a small blue glass bottle. “You ain’t gonna cooperate, den I t’ink it be time you took a little nap. Maybe dat will sweeten up yo’ disposition.”
“Hey!” Kerry cried. “No juju. Y’all promised!”
“Kallie made de promise, boy, not me. ’Sides, dis ain’t no hex, just a simple sleep trick. Now tais-toi, you.”
The mingled scents of frankincense, roses, the citrus tang of bergamot oil, and licorice wafted into the air as Divinity tapped a pale brown powder into the palm of her hand.
“Hey, now,” Cash said, putting his back against the wall, his body stretching up and away as though he were standing on tiptoe despite the fact that his boot soles were planted flat on the floor. His dark eyes locked onto the hand Divinity was lifting to her mouth.
“Awww. Looks like Mr. Don’t-Believe-in-Juju has had a change of heart,” Belladonna commented. “Funny how that happens when a man finds himself facing a pissed-off hoodoo with a palmful of dust.”
“Whatever you’re thinking of doing—don’t,” Cash said, all cockiness gone. “Ain’t no need to poison me. Just tie me up like—”
Divinity blew the powder into Cash’s sweat-beaded face. The back of his head thumped against the wall as he flinched away, coughing, eyes squeezed shut, and wiping frantically at his face with his gloved hands.
“Sweet dreams, nightie-night,” Divinity chanted. “Close yo’ eyes and curl up tight. No need to fret, no need for prayers. Just close yo’ eyes and forget yo’ cares. Sweet dreams, nightie-night. Everyt’ing’ll be all right …”
A sharp pain pierced Kallie’s solar plexus. Wincing, she pressed her fingertips against her bruised breastbone. Black spots peppered her vision and for a split second, she thought she tasted licorice and bergamot.
Christ, did I breathe in some of Divinity’s potion?
But instead of trick-induced sleepiness pouring through her like sun-heated honey, Kallie felt something within her pull taut, a hard inward pulse, like a cocked fist, then release. Her breath caught in her throat. Power pealed through the room like the strike of a bell, a deep chiming that vibrated into Kallie’s bones, through the floor, ceiling, and walls of the house, then out. The hair lifted on her arms.
“Sweet dreams, nightie-night,” Divinity repeated a final time. “Everyt’ing’ll be all right.”
Kallie blinked until the black spots faded from her vision. The licorice taste faded.
“Well, dat be dat.” Yawning, Divinity stepped back a few paces from Cash’s trembling and coughing form and dusted off her palms. Her eyelids drooped as she cast a lover’s yearning glance at the sofa. “Lord. I be too old to be staying up all night an’ be dealing with nonsense like dis. I t’ink I need a little nap.”
Kallie stared at her aunt, all manner of internal alarms and klaxons blaring. “Old? You ain’t even fifty! And a nap? What about Jackson?”
Divinity gave a sleepy snort and flapped a hand at Kallie. “Boy be fine. He always is, him. Knows how to take care of himself. Everyt’ing’ll be all right. You’ll see.” She plopped onto the sofa, plumped a pillow, then lay down. Curled up. Closed her eyes—with a happy, contented sigh.
“Fine? Fine how? He’s in a goddamned grave!”
Divinity’s soft snores buzzed into the air in reply.
“Hellfire,” Belladonna said. “What just happened? Did y’all feel that?”
Kallie nodded. “One hell of a goddamned magic surge. Like a downed power line.”
Cash’s coughing stopped. He quit scrubbing at his face and cautiously opened one eye and looked around the room.
“I think your aunt’s trick boomeranged and hit her instead,” Gabrielle said, her island-spiced words slow and incredulous.
Kallie blinked.
“Is that even possible?”
The red-scarfed mambo shook her head, then waved a hand at Divinity sprawled on the sofa. “How else would you explain it?”
“I don’t know …” Kallie’s words trailed off as her thoughts flicked back to the pain and vision spots, the faint taste of bergamot haunting the back of her throat. She raked a hand through her hair. Had she felt her aunt’s trick backfire?
“Maybe he’s wearing some kind of protection,” Belladonna said, fixing powder-freckled Cash with a Class One Death Glare. She jerked the shotgun barrel up, encouraging a confession.
Cash laughed—relief curling like Christmas ribbon through his voice. “Protection from what? A household of deluded women who’ve had a couple of sixers of Abita too many and think they’re badass hoodoos?” His gaze shifted past Belladonna to his buddy sitting cross-legged and tied up on the floor. “You’re an idiot, man.”
Fury coiled hot around Kallie’s spine. She wanted nothing more than to teach this jerk a lesson, but they didn’t have the time. Not now, anyway. But as for later … “We’ll see who’s deluded,” she said, marching past her snoring aunt to the woman’s worktable cluttered with roots, herbs, and candles.
Kallie spotted the scissors resting beside a half-finished purple button-eyed poppet—that’s supposed to be me—and a muscle in her jaw flexed as her ti-tante’s words, spoken just an hour ago, rippled through her memory.
“When you were born to yo’ mama and papa, yo’ soul was removed to make room for de loa placed inside yo’ infant body. Dere ain’t nothing I wouldn’t do to help you, Kalindra Sophia. Teach you. Guide you. Lie to you. Bind you, if it be necessary. Because a big wrong’s been done to you.”
Shoving the memory aside, Kallie snatched up the scissors, whirled, and stormed back to where Cash stood, contemptuous smirk on his powdered face. Without a word, she reached up and snipped a lock from his blond mullet.
He jerked his head away—too late—thumping it against the wall again. “Hey! What the fuck!” He grabbed for Kallie’s hand as she stepped back, his hair tucked against her palm.
The shotgun barrel appeared against his temple. Pressed a divot into his skin. “Ah, ah, ah. Hands to yourself if you want to keep what few brains you have,” Belladonna said.