Black Heart Loa (17 page)

“Yes,” Felicity replied.

“Yes? To which part of my goddamned question?”

“To both.”

Lifting her hand free of his, Felicity smoothed her skirt, then sat down in the bedside chair. With an elegant shift of her legs, she crossed one slim ankle behind the other.

“Ms. Rivière is all right and Doctor Heron—the aforementioned bastard, the same bastard who tried to kill you—did indeed find her. Though I’m not sure he had time to regret doing so.”

“You saying he’s dead? Not that I’m complaining.”

“I am.”

“And that the bastard was the infamous Doctor Heron—Jean-Julien St. Cyr?”

“Again, I am.”

Dallas frowned, trying to make sense of her words. Why would a root doctor sent to prison for poisoning and killing a few clients—what, twenty-five plus years
ago?—be seeking soul-killing revenge on Kallie and her family?

His memory kicked up a chilling response, more words spoken to him by the stranger that he now knew to be Doctor Heron:
You’ve got your teacher Gabrielle to thank for this, Dallas Brûler. You’re gonna die because of things she did long before you ever knew her.

From outside, Dallas heard the low mutter of thunder and the click of rain against glass. He glanced at the windows, but thick curtains hid the storm from view.

Shifting his gaze back to Felicity, Dallas croaked, “Gabrielle? She okay too? And Jackson—the sick sonuvabitch threatened Kallie’s cousin too.”

Felicity picked up a small pitcher with a crinkly straw protruding from its lid from the bedside table, then leaned over and handed it to Dallas. “Ice water,” she informed him.

Dallas accepted it gratefully, and sucked down several strawfuls of cold, soothing water. As he drank, Felicity brushed a smooth wing of hair back from her face and studied him, her cool and assessing gaze traveling his length several times.

“Fascinating,” she mused. “For a man who’s just had his throat ruthlessly cut, in addition to being stabbed three times, you look incredibly well, Mr. Brûler. A little pale, yes, but nothing like a man who nearly bled to death only twelve hours ago.”

“Thanks for reminding me,” Dallas muttered. “Appreciate it.”

“You’re quite welcome, and given your questions, it seems we need to bring you up to speed on a few things, Mr. Brûler.”

“You can call me Dallas, darlin’. No need for the ‘Mr. Brûler’ bullshit.”

An impish smile dimpled Felicity’s cheeks. “All right, Dallas
darling,
if you insist. The first thing you need to know is that your mentor is
not
Gabrielle LaRue.”

As Dallas listened, stunned, to Felicity’s recital of recent events and revelations—the true identity of his hoodoo mentor, another woman’s stolen years ago leading to a fatal case of mistaken identity; the removal of Kallie’s soul by her own mother to make room for a sleeping
loa
—his disbelief crumbled beneath a growing sense of outrage.

His throat had been cut by motherfucking
mistake.

“Jesus Christ.” Dallas flopped back onto his pillows, ignoring the tiny jabs of pain from his abdomen, his hand clutching the plastic pitcher of water. The fingers of his other hand twisted into the sheets as he stared at the ceiling.

I knew it. I fucking
knew
she wasn’t telling me something.

Dallas remembered his last conversation with his mentor, recalled her profound silence after he’d passed along the
An eye for an eye is never enough
comment from Rosette St. Cyr, and realized that Gabrielle—
dammit, Divinity
—must’ve known or at least suspected who had been behind all the death and violence.

She’d never said a word.

And damned near got all of us—me, Kallie, and Belladonna—killed because she kept her goddamned secrets. Just told me to keep watching Kallie, to make sure she was safe. But how the hell could I do that when I never had the truth—not even about what was inside Kallie?

“What I don’t get,” Dallas said, “is this—with Kallie’s
mama locked up, who the hell is she hiding Kallie from? That’s why she stole that Gabrielle LaRue’s identity, right? So she could hide Kallie.”

“From what I understand, yes. But it’s an unanswered question at this point.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dallas repeated, voice rough. “How’s Kallie holding up?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Felicity replied. “Lord Augustine’s report came via Mr. Valin after they left Bayou Cyprés Noir. But from what I understand, Ms. Rivière was tired and planned to sleep.”

Dallas looked at Felicity in amazement. “After all that? I woulda been as pissed as a dozen rain-soaked cats in that girl’s place. Pissed as
hell
. I wouldn’t’ve stayed one more minute under that roof.”

Felicity shrugged. “And perhaps she won’t—after a bit of rest.”

“Maybe,” Dallas allowed. Lifting the pitcher to his mouth, he sipped more cold water through the straw.

“I can’t help but wonder how it was done, though.”

Dallas looked at Felicity. Raised his eyebrows.

“The soul removal,” she clarified. “How, exactly, would one do it?”

“Why you wanna know? You got some kinda homework assignment?”

“Perhaps.”

Dallas shook his head. “Ain’t information to toss out there like chicken feed.”

A smile brushed Felicity’s lips—not cherry red, her lips, like in his dream, but a deep and glossy peach. She rose to her feet in one smooth motion and crossed to the bed. Her soap and roses scent laced around him.

“Of course it isn’t,” she said. “I understand that. Which is why I would keep it secret.”

Dallas looked into Felicity’s eyes, speckled green and golden-brown, and sudden heat tingled beneath his skin. “Sorry, sugar. You ain’t hoodoo or voodoo, so no can do.” The disappointment shadowing her face made him add, “Why you wanna know, anyway?”

Curling her fingers around the bedrail, Felicity glanced at the floor as if gathering her thoughts. When she lifted her gaze and looked at Dallas again, her expression was stark.

“What would you do if someone you cared for very much, someone you’d shared a large and important portion of your life with, was murdered? Their life stolen. But instead of crossing over and leaving forever, this someone found shelter inside a Vessel—temporary shelter that they would soon have to vacate?”

“I would do my best to find this someone I cared about a permanent home,” Dallas replied, voice low. “But you’re talking about some serious shit here, darlin’. You can’t just yank out someone’s soul and stuff Augustine’s into the body.”

“But it
can
be done? A nonnative soul inserted into a live body?”

“Yeah,” Dallas sighed. “It can. Kallie’s obvious proof of that. But note that it was done
without
her permission. I can’t imagine that you’re gonna have volunteers lining up for the honor of housing your boss’s soul.”

“True,” Felicity said. “Unless they happen to be death row inmates whose time has just run out.”

Light flared behind the curtains. Thunder boomed.

Dallas stared at her. Even though he was pretty
damned sure he’d understood her just fine, he still heard himself asking, “Say what?”

“I’ve also considered the possibility of using the body of a Vessel who has checked out mentally,” Felicity said. “Of course, in that scenario, a catatonic, nonviolent type of insanity would be best. Lord Augustine could surround what remains of the Vessel’s mind with static and take control of the body.”

“But … they wouldn’t be capable of giving consent.”

“Regrettable, I agree,” Felicity replied, without an ounce of regret in her voice. “But a wasted body, otherwise. However, I
do
prefer the first option.”

“Look,” Dallas said softly, “as hard as it is to accept, Augustine
died.
Maybe you need to let him go. Encourage him to complete his journey or crossing or whatever.”

“Never.” Felicity pinned Dallas in place with a fierce, almost savage look. He could see her pulse pounding in her pale throat.

Dallas held her gaze. “Not even if he
wanted
you to let go?”

She lifted her chin. “He doesn’t. He loves life.”

“Who the hell doesn’t, darlin’? But we all gotta go sometime. Look, I get it. I understand—”

Felicity shook her head. “I doubt that. From what I understand, Dallas darling, you’re an expert on leaving. Not sticking around.”

“And you would know that how?”

“From the long and obvious trail of rumpled beds, broken hearts, and wrecked marriages you’ve left behind you, Mr. Brûler.”

Ouch.

Dallas opened his mouth, mentally thumbing through
his repertoire of snarky witticisms and finding them all sadly lacking. He closed his mouth, deciding silence the better option—especially since the damned woman was right.

He
was
an expert at leaving.

Not a fact that made him proud.

Expression smoothing into its usual calm, Felicity murmured, “Excuse me,” then touched a finger to the purple-skinned Bluetooth hooked around her ear. She stepped back from the bed, then turned around.

Dallas’s pulse picked up speed as he drank in the sight of her tight skirt lovingly outlining her heart-shaped ass. Like a pencil skirt valentine.
Mmm-mmm-mmm. Lucky skirt.
He sighed.
Too bad she’s crazy in a mad scientist kinda way.

“No, that won’t do,” Felicity said. “I don’t care if the hamster
is
piloting the model plane with amazing skill, all live animal spells are to be …” She frowned, listening. “It was supposed to a top hat full of daffodils,
not
a hamster-piloted plane? I see.
Another
mistake. My, my, my. Well, until the spell-caster can figure out what went wrong, see if you can shoo the hamster outside onto the carnival grounds. Hotel guests don’t appreciate being buzzed by rodents.”

Dallas silently agreed with that assessment.

Finished with her call, Felicity swiveled around to face Dallas looking just a little harried. “Seems we’re having a rash of mysterious magical mishaps this morning, a matter I need to tend to, Mr. Brû—Dallas darling, so I’ll leave you to the capable care of our medical staff. If you need anything—”

“My cell phone. I need to have a little chat with Gab—Divinity, dammit.”

A smile brushed Felicity’s lips. “You can use the bedside phone. Interstate calls are allowed. Just dial nine first.”

“Gotcha. Good luck with your magical mishaps.”

Felicity started for the door, the heels of her black pumps clicking against the floor tiles, then she stopped and turned back around. She regarded him thoughtfully. “I’m still intrigued by how well you’re doing considering the severe—no, make that
critical
—nature of your injuries.”

“Like you said, capable medical staff.”

“I wonder.” Felicity tapped a rose-lacquered nail against her chin. “Your surgery was magically enhanced. Perhaps whatever’s causing the mishaps is responsible for your amazing recovery as well.”

Dallas shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, darlin’.” But he suspected another source as the smell of dying leaves and magnolias curled through his memory, Erzulie’s words embedded in her earthy scent.

“You be mine, Dallas Brûler. And mine alone.”

“A mystery worth investigation,” Felicity said. Touching a finger to her Bluetooth again, she mouthed
Goodbye,
then click-clickety-clicked from the room, giving Dallas another supreme view of her ass.

He was reaching for the phone, wondering who he would call first, wondering if his anger with Divinity would win out over his concern for Kallie, when the TV mounted on the wall suddenly blared to life.

Dallas’s body spasmed in alarm and he winced as pain burned through his abdomen. The TV flickered through its channels in rapid succession as though a ghostly butt had parked itself on the remote—but given that said
remote was tucked into its bedrail holster, that seemed unlikely.

A faint whiff of brimstone drifting in from the hall along with the echo of multiple TVs flipping through the channels suggested to Dallas that someone’s spell had gone awry—another so-called magical mishap.

“Crap!” someone confirmed from the hall.

Dallas yanked the remote from its holster, then aimed it at the TV, intending to turn the damned thing off. But before he could, it finally settled on a channel. Dallas’s heart started pounding hard as the words sliding across the bottom of the screen sank in.

HURRICANE WATCH FOR THE GULF COAST. EVELYN NEARS CATEGORY THREE
.

The remote dropped into Dallas’s lap.

“M
ay I fetch you
anything, ma’am?” asked the anxious-to-please Hecatean Alliance receptionist—Robert—in his neat gray suit and stylish horn-rimmed glasses as he opened the door, then politely stood aside. “We have tea, coffee, juice, and water. It’s a tad early for champagne, but for a member of the board, anything could be arranged.”

“No, thank you,” Helena Diamond said, sweeping into the room in a swish of navy blue silk and peach blossom perfume.

The late Lord Basil Augustine’s New Orleans office smelled of black tea, vanilla, and dark tobacco, a warm and inviting aroma, masculine. A masculine space as well, Helena judged, one dominating a sizable portion of the Prestige Hotel’s fifteenth floor.

“Please make sure that no one uses magic until the source of its malfunction can be discovered and taken care of,” Helena instructed. “We don’t need housekeeping accidentally conjuring any more goats, carpet-eating or otherwise.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Robert murmured. “Lord Augustine’s
assistant, Mrs. Fields, has already placed a temporary injunction against magic use.”

“Good.”

“Will there be anything else, ma’am?”

“No, Robert, thank you.” Helena dismissed the receptionist with a slight incline of her head along with a tight smile. And although Robert nodded, acknowledging the dismissal, the bastard lingered.