Black Dust Mambo (5 page)

Good God, couldn’t the man go
anywhere
without someone trying to kill him?

This was the man she’d idolized ever since he’d sat down beside her on Gabrielle’s porch steps her first night there and had spoken to her like she was an adult and not a wounded kid who needed to be surrounded with emotional packing peanuts before conversation.

“I hear your mama killed your papa and tried to kill you. That’s fucked up, for true. But in no way was it your fault. I don’t care if you
were the worst brat on earth or not. Don’t make a difference. I’ll teach ya how to fix some tricks to keep people from messing with you—if you wanna learn.”

And she’d very much wanted to learn. Idolized Dallas, yeah. Crushed on, ditto. But often he deliberately made caring for him difficult. And for the last couple of years, he’d made it damned near impossible as he eased his wounded heart with booze and women. Now she thought of him as more of an older brother or young uncle. One who was always in goddamned trouble.

At the sound of Kallie’s voice, Dallas looked at her; tendrils of wet red hair clung to his temples and forehead. Water spilled from his gasping mouth, and panic glimmered deep in his blue eyes.

Belladonna whistled. “Holy . . . Is that who I think it is? Wonder who he pissed off
this
time?”

“No telling. Hold on, Dallas,” Kallie said, wrapping her arms around his cold, wet shoulders and trying to lift him up into a sitting position. “Just hold on,
cher
.”

“Get him on his side.” Belladonna’s voice was calm and practical. “He’s drowning.”

Kallie struggled to roll Dallas onto his side, but he felt as heavy as a pile of steel crossbeams and, without a freaking crane, just as immovable. An alarm triggered inside of her. Sure, Dallas stood over six feet, lean-muscled and athletic, but she should be able to roll him over. This was all wrong.

“Help me, Bell. He’s too heavy.” With Belladonna’s help, Kallie managed to roll Dallas onto his side. But that didn’t help. Water still streamed from his mouth and nose. His struggles for air grew weaker.

The maid said, “I’ll get help.”

“No! No outside help,” Kallie insisted.

But, perhaps deciding that Kallie was confused, the maid jumped to her feet, and raced down the hall, so eager to be gone she left behind her cart, the linens she’d dropped, and even her bucket of water. The mingled odors of wormwood and pine drifted up from the bucket’s interior.

Wormwood? Not your usual cleanser.

Releasing her hold on Dallas, Kallie leaned over and peered into the water-filled bucket. Her heart hammered against her ribs when she saw the doll with red yarn hair anchored to the bucket’s bottom with chains.

Kallie grabbed the bucket and dumped it out on the carpet. “Goddammit, Bell, more black work.”

Belladonna glanced over her shoulder. “What do you wanna bet it’s a gift from an unhappy husband or boyfriend?”

“Could also be connected with the hex in my room,” Kallie said.

“Oh. Well. Could be, yeah.”

Dallas choked, then coughed, before sucking in a ragged breath of air. Then he coughed some more, the sound sandpaper raw.

“That’s it,” Belladonna said. “Just stay on your side. Water out, air in.”

Kallie snatched up the doll and unwrapped what looked like a bike chain from around its cloth body. She dropped the chain. It landed on the carpet with a soft squelch. She examined the doll and the expert blanket stitch holding it together. A basic poppet, nothing fancy, but you didn’t need fancy to get the job or a nasty trick done.

She picked up one of the towels the maid had dropped and spread it out. “You got scissors on you, Bell?” she asked.

“That I do,” Belladonna said. “A
mambo
is always prepared.”

“Do y’all get badges and sashes like the Scouts?” Kallie asked, holding out her hand.

Belladonna snorted. “Scouts. Girl, please.” She dropped her cuticle scissors into Kallie’s waiting palm. “Scouts don’t know diddly about being prepared. They think being able to rub two sticks together when they need a fire and knowing how to deal with a rabid squirrel are survival skills, but what would happen if they ran up against a
loa
pissed off about the poor offerings left on a graveyard altar? They’d run and scream like little girls.”

“
Boy
Scouts, sure.” Kallie used the cuticle scissors to snip open the doll’s seams. “What would Girl Scouts do?”

“No doubt they’d stand frozen, mouths hanging open, eyes bugging out. Would
not
be attractive. But at least they’d be quiet.”

“Nothing quite like silent terror,” Kallie agreed as she opened up the doll and dumped out its contents onto the towel. Spanish moss and ivy root; dirt—most likely from a graveyard; powder smelling of bitter wormwood, sulfur, and pine; a small piece of ribbed white fabric. She’d bet anything it’d been cut or torn from one of Dallas’s tees.

And, curled up like a rain-drunk earthworm, a small twist of paper with
Dallas Brûler
written on it in smeared red ink over and over.

Kallie nudged the paper with a bathrobe-protected fingertip. It flipped over, revealing smudged black letters reading:
Compliments of Gabrielle LaRue.

She stared at the words, pulse pounding in her temples, trying to make sense of them. Whoever was doing this was one sick jackass. No way would Gabrielle try to harm, let alone kill, Dallas. Or her. Someone was playing some very twisted games.

Sure about that?

“Sorry, baby, I ain’t got a choice.”

Kallie felt sick, lightheaded. She swiveled around on her knees to face Dallas and Belladonna, the intensity of the root doctor’s coughing summoning up the image of Gabrielle’s pair of black aces.
Death
.

The mojo bag hanging around Dallas’s throat hadn’t been powerful enough to protect him from the jinxed poppet.

Soul-eating hexes. Poppets more powerful than a strong and
beaucoup
skilled root doctor. Fear sawed along her nerves. What the hell was going on?

“Kallie, go,” Dallas rasped, rolling onto his hands and knees. “You gotta—” But whatever he intended to say was lost in another lung-scraping coughing fit.

“Don’t talk,” she said. “Just breathe.”

Dallas shook his head, still coughing, fist against his mouth. Sweat popped up on his forehead, mingling with the water dripping from his hair. Just a rim of cornflower blue encircled his dilated pupils.

Wonder how much wormwood and sulfur and
bon Dieu
knows what else he sucked in along with all the water?

“He’s right,” Belladonna said. “We gotta get you outta here before Augustine shows up. Go inside and grab some of Dallas’s clothes, and let’s get your ass gone.”

Dallas waved a hand—
go ahead.

“You seem to have a deadly, if not fatal, effect on males, Ms. Rivière.”

Kallie stiffened. Her gaze skipped past Belladonna’s oh-shit! expression, following the posh sound of Augustine’s voice to its source.

The Brit, a bluish bruise shadowing his jaw, strode down the hallway, but he wasn’t alone, dammit. A man and a woman wearing tailored and expensive-looking black suits and sleek shades flanked him, their strides smooth, their black-gloved hands hanging easy at their sides. But their flowing movement, balanced and sure, whispered to Kallie of hidden and deadly skill.

Not hotel security, no. Hecatean Alliance security. Warriors trained in martial arts and magic. But knowing that still made it hard to keep from laughing at the Hecatean Alliance symbol stitched in red above the right breast pockets of their suits—a pentagram containing the letters
HA
in gothic script. All that was missing was a red-stitched exclamation point.

Kallie rose to her feet as Augustine sauntered to a stop in front of her, the black-suited guards halting behind him. He pointed at the floor with a discreet index finger.
Stay. Good HA(!) warriors.

Augustine tilted his head at Dallas, a lock of nutmeg hair sliding across his eyes. “So what has happened here, and how did you—of all people, Ms. Rivière—manage to stumble across it?”

“Dallas is a family friend,” Kallie said. “And it looks to me like I’m not the only target. Seems like someone is killing hoodoos.”

“Trying to, at least,” Augustine said. “Or perhaps someone is trying to make it
look
that way, yes? So far only a nomad conjurer has died. No hoodoos.”

Kallie’s hands knotted into fists. “What are you saying?”

“You’re either a very clever murderer, Ms. Rivière, or an intended victim in need of protection. In either case, I need to take you into custody.”

“No!” Grabbing the doorjambs, Dallas hauled himself to his feet and fixed his dilated gaze on Augustine. “Who the . . . hell are . . .” His words trailed off as he swayed, his square-toed Durangos scuffing across the carpet like a drunk surfing a flat floor.

“Uh-oh.” Still kneeling beside the doorway, Bella-donna reached up a steadying hand and grabbed hold of Dallas’s forearm.

Dallas rallied enough to finish his question in a slurred whisper: “. . . you?” Then his eyes rolled up in his head and his hands slipped from the doorjambs. He fell, collapsing onto Belladonna and riding her down to the floor.

Kallie dropped to her knees and grabbed two handfuls of Dallas’s shirt. “Bell? You okay?” Despite the unconscious root doctor’s deadweight, this time she heaved him off of her friend without any difficulty.

No chained-up poppet anchoring him to the goddamned floor this go-round.

Belladonna blinked at the ceiling. “Caught him,” she gasped.

“Lucky you, Ms. Brown,” Augustine said, voice dry enough to spark a forest fire. “Congratulations. I shall leave you to tend to your magicked friend while I take Ms. Rivière into custody.”

Belladonna sat up and darted a glance at Kallie, distress shadowing her face. “I need to go with her.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Augustine said, not a single ounce of regret in his polished voice.

“Am I under arrest?” Kallie rose to her feet and swiveled to face the Hecatean master.

Augustine lifted his shoulder in an elegant and very European half-shrug. “If you wish to be technical.”

“I wish to be.”

“Then yes. You’re under arrest.”

“She’s not guilty of anything,” Belladonna insisted, climbing to her feet. “And I promised her aunt I wouldn’t leave her alone.”

“Ms. Rivière won’t
be
alone; myself or someone else will be with her at all times. And, if it’s any comfort, I’ll be sending someone to debrief you and . . .” Augustine glanced at Dallas and cocked an eyebrow.

“Amazing. Someone’s name you
don’t
know.” Bella-donna said, hand on hip. “This is Dallas Brûler, a root doctor outta Chalmette.”

“I’m fine with going, Bell. I’d like to get this all straightened out,” Kallie said. “I didn’t kill Gage, so I ain’t got nothing to hide.”

“I promised Gabrielle, dammit.” Belladonna focused a narrow-eyed gaze on Augustine. “You’d better keep her safe.”

Genuine amusement defrosted the winter-ice expression from Augustine’s face. “I admire your loyalty to your friend, Ms. Brown. She’ll be quite safe.”

“Mmm-hmm. You’d better hope so.” Belladonna shifted her weight onto one hip, looking unconvinced.

Kallie bent and bundled up the bike chain and the doll’s evil innards in the towel. When she straightened, she handed the poppet package to Belladonna. “Take care of that,” she said. “And talk to Dallas. Find out if he saw anyone.”

“Sure thing, Shug.”

“I apologize,” Augustine said, again without an ounce of regret, “but I’m going to need that. Evidence. Magic DNA. I can’t allow you to destroy it, Ms. Brown.”

A muscle ticked in Belladonna’s jaw, but she handed the towel bundle to the Brit.

“I think you just made up the ‘magic DNA’ bit. Just be sure you let me or Kallie finish unwinding that spell when you’re done.”

Augustine nodded. “Of course.” He looked at Kallie. “Shall we, Ms. Rivière?”

Kallie’s gaze flicked from Augustine to the waiting HA(!) warriors.
Like I have a choice
. “Let’s get this god-damned show on the road.” Spinning on the ball of one bare foot, Kallie marched down the hall, chin lifted. She wondered if her black-uniformed escorts would just glide up beside her as a reminder that she was under arrest and not leading a parade, or if they’d just tackle and cuff her.

Prisoner or protected? At the moment, she didn’t give a rat’s ass.

The words written on the curl of parchment paper burned molten in her mind:
Compliments of Gabrielle LaRue.

If they were true, she’d never be safe anywhere. Not unless she fought back with everything she had—magic, muscle, and cold heart.

And lost the only family she had.

S
EVEN
B
ONDALICIOUS

Bracing his arm against his broken ribs, Layne eased up from his chair. “That was one helluva wicked right hook,” he said. “Woman knows how to throw a punch.”

“Knows how to land one too,” Mc Kenna agreed sourly. “I hope ol’ Basil can catch up with her before she disappears.”

“If he loses her,
we’ll
find her. She ain’t slipping away from us.”

“She’d better not.”

Walking to the door, Layne grabbed hold of each side of the threshold and leaned out into the now quiet hall. His breath caught in his throat as the movement skewered red-hot pain through his sternum.
Holy shit, okay, not smart. I’m giving myself permission to kick my own ass if I do that again.

“Where do you think yer going? Sit yer arse back down in tha’ chair.”

Once the pain eased off the throttle and he could breathe again, Layne said, “There you go again. Acting like we’re still married.” The scent of cinnamon and fresh-baked pastry from the kitchens below squeezed a growl from his empty belly.

“An’ there
you
go again, acting all knuckle-dragging man-stupid. I was yer teacher long before I married you and I am
still
yer teacher. It’s yer best interests I have in mind.”

“I hear you,
shuvani,
” Layne murmured, watching as Basil Augustine, cell phone pressed to his ear, stalked into the elevator at the end of the hall. Calling for reinforcements, most likely, to chase down one pissed-off hoodoo beauty with riveting violet eyes and quick-swinging fists.

And possibly Gage’s murderer.

But something deep inside Layne whispered
no, no, no
. Intuition or enchantment? It bugged the ever-loving hell out of him that he couldn’t be sure of
anything
at the moment except that he was alive and sucking in painful breaths of air, thanks to Kallie Rivière.

Basil Augustine swiveled around in the elevator’s white-and-gold interior, jabbed a long finger against a numbered button, then stepped back. He flipped his cell phone closed. A lock of dark hair swept across his eyes, shadowing his face. His glittering gaze caught Layne’s, and his lips thinned into a tight, arrogant smile.

Doesn’t think much of nomads. Well, let’s just justify that opinion.

Layne released the threshold and sauntered into the hall. He returned Augustine’s smile with an upward tilt of his chin, then rubbed his middle finger alongside his nose. Augustine arched one dark eyebrow. But as the elevator’s polished-steel doors slid shut, blocking the illusionist from view, Layne caught a glimpse of Augustine’s taut smile relaxing into one of genuine amusement.

“Huh. Didn’t think he had it in him.”

“Didn’t think he had what?” McKenna asked.

“Humor.”

“Maybe he was just giving you what he thought you needed to see,” Mc Kenna said in her calm and neutral teaching voice, switching in an instant from friend to
shuvani
. “Appearances are everything to illusionists.”

“I wonder what he’ll show Kallie when he catches up to her? I got a feeling it ain’t gonna be what
she
wants to see.”

“That’s fine by me,” McKenna said. “Whether she intended it or not—and I’m not convinced that she’s
anywhere
near innocent in this—our Gage is dead because of tha’ woman.”

Layne looked down into Mc Kenna’s dark eyes. A storm of furious grief raged in their depths; a storm matching the maelstrom battering him from within. “I know,” he said quietly. “Believe me, Kenn, I know.”

“Still . . . because of her, yer alive, yer soul intact,” Mc -Kenna said. She raked her fingers through her short dark hair, and Layne caught a faint whiff of musky amber, her natural perfume. “And that bugs the shite outta me because now—whether any of us like it or not—yer fate is tied to hers.”

“The least of my worries, yeah? I’ll deal with it later.” Layne turned around and red-hot pain spiked through his chest. His vision grayed. “Christ,” he whispered.

Mc Kenna’s hands locked around his biceps, her strong fingers steadying him until his sight cleared. “That’s what I’m talking about,” she said. “You need to rest, so sit yer arse back down.”

“No.” Layne carefully peeled her fingers from his arms. Pink finger-shaped marks branded his skin. “Not until I’ve tended to Gage.”

“Or better yet,” McKenna continued, dark brows slashing down, “you should go back to yer room and lie down. I’ll take care of things here.”

Layne shook his head and strode back to the room, pain twinging against his sternum.
Hurt all you damned want, you ain’t stopping me. Nothing’s stopping me.

“Layne, please, there’s nae one to tend to anymore,” Mc Kenna said, her brogue thickening. “Ain’t nothing left o’ him. Go lie down.”

Layne paused in the room’s threshold. The pain knotting around his heart had nothing to do with his broken ribs. “I’m going to get his body ready,” he said, voice rough. “He woulda done the same for me. No matter what.”

Behind him, Mc Kenna sighed, but said nothing more.

With a tap of his fingers against the door frame, Layne walked into the room and to the bed. Gage lay half on his side, half on his belly near the edge of the bed where Kallie and her friend had pushed him, pillows propped against his back.

“We need to get him off that bed, first of all,” Mc Kenna said, eyeing the hex on the mattress. “Probably safe to touch him since he’s no longer in contact with the spell.”

“You sure about that?” Layne barely suppressed a convulsive shudder as he remembered the feel of the hex’s tainted magic rampaging through his body.

“No,” Mc Kenna admitted. “I’m not sure. But if you go to me room and fetch me staff—”

“Nuh-uh. You ain’t sending me off on some errand and then taking all the risks yourself, woman.” Layne held Mc Kenna’s dark gaze. “I know you.”

She tilted her head. “You
think
you do, anyway. But you only know what I’ve
allowed
you to know.”

Layne glanced up at the ceiling and counted to ten, refusing to take the bait. “I know you think you’d be protecting me because I don’t have any real magic skill,” he said, returning his gaze to hers, “through no fault of your own. I couldn’t have asked for a better
shuvani
because one doesn’t exist. But it’s just not in me—not the way it is . . . was . . . with Gage.”

Was
. The word hollowed out Layne’s heart.

“Ah, but yer wrong, lad. The two of you worked so well together, completing and enhancing each other’s spells,” she said, a sad smile brushing her lips. “You were true brothers-in-magic.” She looked at Gage’s body. The smile vanished from her lips. “I won’t lose you too. Now go fetch me staff.”

Layne bent and kissed the top of Mc Kenna’s head.

“Thanks, buttercup, I appreciate it, but I ain’t leaving. Fetch your own damned staff.” He straightened.

“Man-stupid.” Mc Kenna’s hand snapped up and caught a fistful of dreads. Yanked. Pain rippled across Layne’s scalp. She yanked again. Then once more. His eyes watered. Grip of steel, that woman, but he refused to give her any satisfaction.

“Did you want something?” he asked, pleased at the levelness of his voice.

“I wanna knock some sense into yer head, but since yer head seems to be lacking a brain, there’s no point in the knocking.” She gave his captured dreads one more eye-stinging yank before releasing them. “So I’ll settle fer keeping you alive and on yer path.”

Curling his hands into fists in order to keep from rubbing at his scalp, Layne asked, “And what path is that, Kenn? Not many are laid out for a Vessel.”

“You’ve already lived longer than most Vessels and, except for occasional bouts of man-stupidity, yer still sane.”

“That’s me, breaking records all over the place. Spill—what path?”

Mc Kenna walked away, pacing around to the opposite side of the bed, her fingers smoothing and twisting locks of nearly black hair into points along her temples and cheeks, a rakish and sexy habit that Layne still enjoyed watching. But right now, she was using it to distract him.
Not going to work.

“What path?” he repeated.

Mc Kenna looked at him, her hand dropping to her side. Her lovely face held a careful neutrality that he recognized as the Teacher, and he knew he wouldn’t get his answer. Or he
would,
but his answer would be twisted into a riddle impossible to unwind.

“Answer hazy,” she replied. “Try again later.”

“Will I need to shake you first?” Layne growled.

“Oh, what a rare pleasure, truly,” a female voice with a posh British accent cut in. “I’ve never met a human Magic 8 Ball before.”

Layne spun around, automatically reaching for the gun normally tucked into his jeans, but it wasn’t there, and pain rippled hot and liquid through his chest with the movement. Vision peppered with black specks, he stumbled. “Shit.”

Hands gripped his arms before he could fall—inquisitive, touchy-feely hands, sliding along his forearms and caressing his biceps—and guided him to a chair.

“My, my, my, aren’t we well built and firm?” the British voice murmured. “Here. Please sit down and catch your breath.”

Layne half fell, half sat in the chair, then leaned his forearms against his thighs, lowered his head, and closed his eyes. His heart hammered against his aching ribs.

“Who the hell are you?” Mc Kenna asked the woman Layne still felt standing beside him, an energetic, hummingbird-busy presence.

“Felicity Fields. I’m Lord Augustine’s assistant. And may I extend my condolences for your loss?”

“You may, but are you kidding me?” McKenna asked, her tone dubious, but Layne heard the humor beneath her words. “Felicity Fields sounds like the name of a Bond babe. You a double-O spy?”

“No, but—my, my, my—what a fascinating possibility. A spy. Me. But no, I’m here because Lord Augustine asked me to tidy up the situation.”

Layne opened his eyes at the woman’s words and lifted his head. “A man was fucking murdered. That ain’t something you can just tidy up.”

Felicity Fields—tall and curvaceous in a knee-length rose-colored skirt belted at the waist below a gauzy white sleeveless blouse—met his gaze. A rose-colored Bluetooth cupped her right ear. Strawberry-blonde hair fell sleek to the tops of her shoulders, framing a fair-skinned and freckled face. She regarded Layne with sympathetic hazel eyes. “I’m referring to the physical aftermath, of course,” she said. “Not the emotional.”

“You ain’t taking his body,” Layne said, rising to his feet.

“The deceased was nomad,” Mc Kenna said. “You can’t.” Felicity frowned, a deep crease cutting into her forehead between her eyes. No Botox for this Bond babe. “I’m afraid my instructions say otherwise. We need to perform an autopsy to determine—”

“That fucking hex on the mattress is what killed Gage,” Layne said. “No mystery there. Why don’tcha take a look? Perform an autopsy on
that
.”

Her eyes brightened, and her smile made an encore performance. “Oh. My.” She drew in a shuddery breath. A
happy
shuddery breath.

Now it was Layne’s turn to frown.
Wasn’t my intention to turn the woman on
.

“We don’t need to know how Gage was killed,” Mc -Kenna said. “Or even why. We just need to know
who
created tha’ hex and where to find them.”

“Then
we’ll
tidy things up,” Layne said.

Felicity’s smile vanished beneath a rose-glossed frown. She darted over to the dresser on the other side of Layne’s chair and drummed her fingers against its lacquered surface, her nails clicking in a staccato rhythm. “My, my, my. A fascinating dilemma,” she murmured.

Layne glanced at Mc Kenna, surprised at Felicity’s response. Her body practically vibrated as she considered the tin ceiling, mulling over their words, her fingernails click-click-clickety-clicking against the dresser. Layne half expected her to flit away to the nearest flower.

Mc Kenna offered a half-shrug, expression bemused.

“I hope you realize we ain’t asking permission,” Layne said. “We’re telling you how it’s gonna be. I’m taking Gage back to our room. What you do here after that, I couldn’t care less.”

Felicity’s vibrations stilled, and she returned her attention to Layne. She nodded. “Given that the victim is nomad, perhaps we can waive the usual rules.”

“You have enough murders during carnival to require rules?” McKenna asked.

“The rules—the
laws
—aren’t just for carnival, my dear Lady 8 Ball.”

The indignation that rippled across Mc Kenna’s face at her new and unwanted title didn’t faze Felicity one bit, provided the hummingbird Bond babe had even noticed. But Layne suspected that Felicity counted on being underestimated, suspected that maybe her mannerisms had been created with that goal in mind. Suspected that she missed very little.

“We may be a society of conjurers, illusionists, and diviners,” Felicity continued, “a secretive minority bound by a common interest, but we’re still quite human. Therefore, Lady 8 Ball, we need laws to keep us safe even from one another.”

“Call me ‘Lady 8 Ball’ again,” Mc Kenna muttered, her death-in-a-thousand-different-and-painful-ways glare fixed on Felicity, “an’ I’m gonna ring yer skull like a bell at a boxing match.”

Excitement kindled in Felicity’s eyes. “Really?”

Mc Kenna blinked, but managed to keep her death glare going. “Really.”

“My, my, my.”

Almost seeing the steam curling out from McKenna’s ears, Layne decided to break up the weird staring match by saying, “You know what you can do with your Alliance rules, right?”

“Shove them where the sun doesn’t shine, perhaps?” Felicity responded, shifting her attention to him.

Annnnnd mission accomplished.

“Exactly.”

“Ooooh.” All shuddery and breathy again.

Layne walked back to the bed. He grabbed the blankets piled up at its foot and spread them out on the floor to cushion Gage’s coming fall.