“Smell that?” a female voice asked. “Sulfur and piss and anise? Black juju.”
It took every bit of Jackson’s strength to inhale a lungful of fresh, sweet air, to force his mud-caked eyelids open. He winced as gray morning light shafted into his eyes.
Cielo, ears pricked up, gaze intense, stared at him from behind two crouching, mud-streaked, and beaucoup nude people, one guy and one gal with wild and wind-twisted hair. Both studied him with gleaming silver-frosted eyes.
Well, hell, maybe I ain’t been rescued after all.
A firestorm raged inside his skull, ashing each thought as it raced through his mind. Jackson struggled to make sense of what he was seeing. Ghosts? Fellow zombies-to-be fresh from their own graves to welcome him into his new undead life? Welcome to the Zombie Corps, maggot.
Something nagged at Jackson, something he knew he should know, something about the mud-streaked and crouching pair’s gleaming silver eyes, but the pain in his head stomped all recollections flat.
“Hey, girl,” he tried to say to Cielo, but all that came out was a dirt-rough croak.
“Hoo-eee, look at his eyes, Jubilee,” the guy said. “He be in a world of hurt, him.”
The crouching feral gal’s nostrils—Jubilee?—flared. “For true,” she agreed. “And he looks and smells like he’s just about done bleeding out, too.”
As Jackson’s vision narrowed to a single point of gray, rain-streaked light, he heard Jubilee add, “Might be too late for this little chien de maison, so let’s haul ass.”
House dog? Jackson wondered as pain chewed into him with sharp and splintered teeth, then darkness swallowed him once more.
EIGHT
BLOOD PRICE
One more stop before Gage is truly avenged and Kallie truly safe. A quick visit to the vengeful spirit of Doctor Heron’s long-dead and bitter wife.
Dead or not, she does not get to walk away from this.
Layne Valin arrowed his Harley along US 90 East toward Chacahoula, the engine a deep, steady rumble beneath him, the pavement rain-slick and gleaming as the early morning downpour continued. Though getting soaked to the skin in a storm while speeding down the road was nothing new, Layne was grateful that at least the rain was warm.
Rain beaded up on his goggles, rolled along the sleeves of his leather jacket, and plastered his soaked dreads to his back and shoulders. He smelled ozone, rain, and heated engine oil with each moist breath he drew in.
He felt his cell phone, tucked into a pocket of his leather jacket, vibrating against his hip. Another call from McKenna, no doubt. He ignored it, already knowing what the conversation-slash-argument would entail—and all of their conversations seemed to be arguments lately, especially where Kallie Rivière was concerned. He opened up the bike’s throttle.
Cool air slipstreamed over him, a thief plucking at his breath. But, argument or not, it had been his ex-wife’s earlier call that had cemented his decision to swing his bike away from I-10 and New Orleans and head for the nearest of two addresses he’d Googled for the freshly deceased Doctor Heron—Chacahoula—though he planned to check the Delacroix address as well if necessary.
According to McKenna, Rosette St. Cyr had been murdered by one of the Hecatean Alliance guards just as she was about to be handed over to the nomads to face clan law—Daoine shena liri—for Gage’s death. Rosette and her cold-blooded bastard of a father had been responsible for the hex that had killed Gage and destroyed his soul, so she was about to face a similar fate.
Or would’ve, if not for the guard’s unexpected interference.
Layne pictures McKenna as her soft brogue rolls into his ear—large, dark doe eyes, black bird vee for clan Raven inked beneath the right, her hair a cap of nearly black anime-character spiked hair, laugh lines bracketing her eyes and generous mouth; she has the will, power, and strength of a doomed Spartan army packed into her curvy five-foot frame.
“St. Cyr’s daughter is dead, luv. One of the guards put a bullet into her, then blew his own brains out. Avenging ol’ Basil, some think.”
“Jesus Christ. If the guard was avenging Augustine, then why kill himself too? And why didn’t he just let our clan carry out Rosette’s sentence?”
“Yer asking the same questions me and Basil’s Bond-babe assistant asked, and we both believe the guard musta been compelled.”
“But who would … Shit. Christ on a Ritz cracker. You’re thinking St. Cyr somehow controlled the guard and offed his own daughter?”
“To keep her soul intact? Aye, I do. Know what this means, don’tcha, luv?”
“Dammit, yeah, I do. Kallie might still be in danger.”
“Bloody hell. No. Yer being man-stupid. Again,” Mc-Kenna growls, her Scottish accent giving her tone of disgust a lilting and lyrical quality. “Tha’ woman is the sodding danger. No, with Rosette dead, yer promise to let him stay in yer body long enough to see the woman get much-deserved justice no longer applies. This means you can finally boot Augustine’s spirit arse out. The clan and yer mum are wondering where you are. Have ye forgotten Gage’s funeral?”
“You should fucking know better than that, buttercup.” Even Layne hears the icicles slivering his voice. “I’ll be there— after I’ve finished what I gotta do.”
“Layne, lad, wait—”
But he hadn’t waited. Hadn’t listened to another word. He’d ended the call, then had slipped the cell back into his pocket and, jaw tight, had ignored each bumblebee buzz against his hip ever since.
Layne rubbed his knuckles against his chest as if easing a kink, but the grief and pain plugging the hole Gage’s loss had punched into his heart refused to come loose.
Gage, clan-brother, best friend, his draíocht-brúthair in the world of magic.
Layne’s throat tightened, ached. Accidental or not, Gage had given up his life and soul for Kallie Rivière, the dark-haired swamp beauty, the hoodoo with mysterious purple eyes, heart-stopping curves, and—Layne winced, remembering—rib-cracking CPR skills.
Gage died in Kallie Rivière’s place and paid for her life with his own, and now it’s my duty to make sure she stays alive, to make sure that no one succeeds in closing her violet eyes forever. It’s the only way I can give his death some kind of meaning.
Ain’t the only reason, though. The woman fought for my life with all she had when the hex that killed Gage nearly aced me too—body and soul.
Downshifting automatically, Layne steered the Harley off the wet highway and onto an oak-lined side road. He gunned it through the rain-dripping tree shadows, searching for street signs.
Hey, how about being completely honest, bro? Saving your life, giving Gage’s death a purpose, that ain’t the whole story, yeah? What about how Kallie’s lips, all soft and heated, felt beneath yours, or how she smells—hyacinths and white honey—or the pulse-pounding connection you feel arcing between you like uncontained and wild electricity whenever you lay eyes on her for the first time?
Nope, ain’t going there. Not now. She’s the last woman Gage kissed, the last woman Gage loved between the sheets, the last person he ever spoke to.
A brilliant fork of lightning split the sky, quickly followed by a rolling boom of thunder. Layne’s path was taking him at 70+ mph into the heart of the storm as he steered his bike for St. Cyr’s Chacahoula home, guided by Kallie’s blood divination from the night before.
“Who am I looking at?” Layne asks, studying the photo of a pretty, black-haired, brown-eyed woman with toffee-colored skin.
“Babette St. Cyr,” Kallie answers. “Rosette’s mama. The photo’s from her obituary.”
“If she’s dead, then she can’t be the third person involved in this, yeah?”
“I think she is. When I did the blood divination, it showed me a heron for Rosette’s papa, Doctor Heron, and that made total sense. I’m sure he’s the goddamned bastard who slashed Dallas’s throat. But then it showed me a woman standing in front of a house. Babette.”
Dead or not, Babette St. Cyr owed
Layne and his clan a blood price, one he intended to collect.
Cars and pickup trucks traveling the opposite way whooshed past Layne, tires shushing along the wet pavement, windshield wipers clocking back and forth. Lightning strobed in multiple and soundless strikes from the bruised bellies of the clouds to the ground, dazzling Layne’s vision with orange and white starbursts. Thunder cracked and boomed as the storm intensified.
Rain sheeted down, making it damned near impossible to see the road. Layne eased up on the throttle.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Layne winced as the internal bell’s sharp clanging reverberated along the inside of his skull. Lord Basil Augustine’s—aka the stowaway—annoying and headache-inducing signal. Seemed the ghost in the cargo hold wanted to have a little chat.
Or wanted to take charge of the driver’s seat for a while again. Nope. As far as Layne was concerned, the illusionist’s steering time was all used up.
And in that, their situation was more than a little unique. Even though Augustine had sieved into Layne while one of his Alliance guards had ensured Layne’s cooperation by holding a gun to McKenna’s head, the bastard had figured out a way for them to take turns at the helm, allowing Layne to resume control of his own ghost-possessed body—something Layne had never been able to accomplish on his own before.
Most Vessels lost control of their bodies whenever a ghost slipped inside, becoming little more than gagged and bound stowaways shanghaied by ethereal, uncrossed-over body pirates hoping to say good-bye to loved ones, to seek revenge for their murder, to finish a final task, or simply clinging to flesh out of denial or fear of the unknown.
Grief awakened like a hibernating bear.
To say good-bye to loved ones …
Layne had offered himself to his murdered sister so she could say the good-byes stolen from her along with her life when squatters had beaten her to death in a Winn-Dixie parking lot. They’d nearly killed Layne too and, unfortunately for them, had believed they’d done just that.
When he’d healed enough to walk out of the hospital, he’d gone looking for the bastards. And had found them. One by one.
Layne sweeps one blade across the inside of the squatter’s raised wrist, slicing through flesh, muscles, and tendons. The blade’s edge scrapes against bone. Blood streams from the wound, threads the smell of copper into the air.
Layne drew in a deep breath. None of the blood he’d spilled had brought Poesy back. Nor had it subtracted from the pain of her loss or knowing that it’d been his screwup that had caused it.
But at least the fuckers who’d killed her would never draw in another breath, let alone enjoy another day.
Layne never had the chance to say good-bye to his sister. And knowing it would be too dangerous for him while she was still inside, Poesy hadn’t tried. To keep from spiraling into madness, to keep their personalities from blending and meshing, ghost and Vessel couldn’t interact.
Instead, she’d given Gage a message to pass along to Layne.
It wasn’t your fault, you couldn’t have known. Gage has orders to kick your ass on my behalf whenever he catches you blaming yourself. Kick your ass hard. I love you, little brother. I wish I could stay, but I can’t.
“Love you too,” Layne whispered into the wind.
Layne had learned over the years to create his own Fortress of Solitude within his mind and had managed to keep his sanity intact. He sure as hell couldn’t say the same of his memories. A possession’s most deadly moment occurred when the departing passenger, accidentally or otherwise, ran the risk of hooking into a Vessel’s memories and unthreading a few as they vacated the premises.
“No one wants to tell you, because they love you, bro,” Gage says, “and don’t want to see you hurt, but it’s happened again.”
“Shit. What did I lose this time?”
“See that woman over there? The yummy little brunette?”
“Yeah, man. You kidding? That’s McKenna, our gorgeous shuvani.”
“Yeeaahh. And she’s your wife too, bro.”
“Fuck me. My wife?”
His and McKenna’s relationship had never truly recovered from that loss. So even though he’d learned to love her once more, he’d forced himself to walk away before he broke her heart again.
You deserve a man who will always remember you, buttercup.
Most Vessels plummeted into despair and madness by their late teens or early twenties and ended their lives in messy and desperate ways.
Layne was twenty-five. He knew the odds were stacking up mile-high against him.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Seemed like the Hecatean master—or former master, actually, since the Brit was technically dead—refused to be ignored.
Layne tightened his wet-fingered hold on the handlebar’s rubber grips, then focused his attention inward to the bubble of static encircling Augustine, keeping them both safe from any accidental memory/personality merging.
Huh. Wonder if mental conversations fall under the texting/talking on cell phone no-no category while driving?
Deciding that they probably did, Layne compromised with his stunted sense of caution and reduced the Harley’s speed, reluctant to pull over to the roadside.
Layne sent.
An image of Augustine as he’d appeared in life formed in Layne’s mind. Tall and lean, with penetrating, deep-set gray eyes and an unruly shock of nut-brown hair that kept tumbling over them, the Brit was aristocratic and elegant—or had been, anyway—in a tailored pale gray suit and French blue shirt, a cigarette held carelessly between two long fingers.
Even inside Layne’s head, the illusionist “spoke” with a lofty British accent.
A blazing flash of white light freeze-framed the gray sky, then thunder cracked directly overhead. Layne’s heart catapulted into his throat. “Christ!”
Ozone saturated the air. Layne felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. His skin prickled. Too fucking close. Blinking away retinal ghosts from his vision, he peered through the curtain of heavy rain, trying to make out the street signs.
Augustine interrupted,
Lightning illuminated another upcoming street sign. Rain beaded the letters: COTTONWOOD ROAD.
Bingo. Almost there. St. Cyr’s place branched off from Cottonwood—a dirt driveway snaking down from the road.
Layne turned the Harley right onto Cottonwood, the pavement giving way to gravel. Reducing his speed to 30 mph, he shifted his attention back to Augustine.
ck or two. But they don’t always work.>
Augustine’s sending was dry as a river in the Sahara.
Augustine murmured, and Layne had the uneasy feeling he meant it.
A mental snort. Layne felt a wry smile pull at his lips.
Layne’s thought died unfinished as a vehicle blurred out from a side road at high speed less than twenty-five yards in front of him. Layne swerved and felt the Harley’s tires stutter across the rain-puddled gravel, then slide. Felt the bike going down as the road rushed up. Sound faded, drowned out by his drumming heart.
Fuck.
Time stretched out, slow and elastic, while the truck swung wide in an effort to miss him, a scowl of concentration on the driver’s face as he spun the steering wheel. Caught in the slo-mo of imminent disaster, Layne realized that if he wanted to avoid a collision between his head and the Dodge Ram’s looming steel bumper with the trailer hitch jutting like a sword pommel behind it, he had to move. Now.
Layne kicked his legs free of the bike and rolled.
Time snapped back in on itself.
He hit the road hard, shoulder first. He heard a loud crack as his helmet smacked into something. Blue light flashed like jet engine flame through his mind. Pain stunned him, stole his breath, as he bounced and somersaulted across the gravel road and into a tree trunk or post or rock wall.
Stars lit up his vision like a Disneyland fireworks display.
Just before the fireworks display went dark and he was shuffled off to Night-Nightland, Layne thought he saw a Siberian husky and what looked like a pair of wolves staring at him from the back of the fishtailing Dodge Ram.
Musta hit the son-of-a-bitching bumper after all.
Then all thought winked out.
NINE
QUEEN OF SPADES