Black Heart Loa (32 page)

More than one person seated in Addie’s living room murmured, “Dear God.”

Amen,
Addie added silently.

She felt just as grim as good ol’ meteorologist Jim had sounded. She had a feeling that his prediction would be an understatement if she and the other conjurers couldn’t figure out how to either fix the magical misfires or undo the wards. Both would be ideal, but …

“We’re running out of time,” someone else said—Auntie Dominique from Morgan City. “We’ve got to get those damned wards fixed before there ain’t nothing or no one left to protect.”

“Maybe if we petition the
loa,
” someone else said, and all eyes turned hopefully to the mambo in her red scarf.

Shaking her head, regret shadowing her face, Gabi set
her crust-littered paper plate on the coffee table. “Invocations seem to use the same kind of magical energy as spells.”

“
Seem
to?” Addie asked. “How do you know?”

“An invocation I performed this morning to help a friend … well, let’s just say it didn’t go as I’d hoped.”

“Merde,”
Auntie Dominique muttered.

“Okay, then. Let’s hear more suggestions, y’all,” John Blaine said from where he perched on an arm of the sofa. “Anything—no matter how stupid you think it might be.”

“I can’t think of anything that doesn’t require using magic in some shape or another,” Addie said. “But I don’t think we’re going to be able to fix or undo anything until we find out what caused this mess in the first place.”

John swiveled around to look at Addie, then he looked past her, eyes widening in disbelief just as a cold gust of wind blew through the screen door, slamming it and scattering empty paper plates like autumn leaves throughout the living room. Everyone seated in front of Addie looked past her to the door. More than one mouth dropped open.

A spoon clattered to the floor.

“O mighty Baron,” someone whispered, dropping to their knees. “Welcome.”

Power, dark and muscular, snaked into the room along with the pungent scent of burning tobacco and hot-peppered rum and, inexplicably, rank swamp mud.

Mouth dry, heart pounding so hard she felt faint, Addie slowly turned around.

Baron Samedi stood just inside the porch door, his
cheval
a tall blond man in a black fedora, mud-flecked shades, a black suit, and skull face paint. He held a walking stick loosely in one hand.

“I happen to know de source of dis mess we all be facing,
loa and
mortals,” the Baron said. “But I can’t find her ever since
my
magic backfired and now she be hidden from me because it did.”

“‘She’?” Addie managed to say.

“
Oui,
she. Dis girl be a jinx. She be a true walking hex because o’ de monster inside her,” the Baron replied. “Maybe
I
can’t find her, but
you
can. All of you. Find her
tout de suite,
do whatever it takes, den summon me, and together, we’ll put an end to dis storm before it puts an end to all of you.”

“Who do we need find?” Addie asked.

“Kallie Rivière.”

As Addie stared at him in shock, her pulse reaching its own hurricane velocity, the Baron strolled into the living room and over to the chair Gabi sat in. The mambo stared at the
loa,
her hands clutching the arms of the chair, sweat glistening on her forehead.

The Baron thumped the end of his walking stick against the hardwood floor, then murmured, “But you know all about dat, ain’t dat so,
ma belle
?” Leaning over, he brushed his painted skull grin against Gabi’s lips. She paled. “It be time to share what you know, woman.”

Stunned silence thickened the air as all eyes fixed on the red-scarfed mambo. A silence that soon prickled with suspicion and hostility.

“I also t’ink,” the Baron said, straightening and thumping his walking stick against the floor again, “dat it be time you summon yo’ godson—”

Gabi’s eyes grew wide with dismay. “No, there’s no need, I know right where Kallie is—she’s at her aunt’s botanica. Or she
was
when I left there.”

But the Baron kept on talking as though the mambo had never opened her mouth. “—de demon wolf o’ de bayou, Devlin Daniels—and put him on de hunt for luscious Kallie Rivière.”

“Please, no, we can go to the botanica. There’s no need to summon—”

“Hush, woman!”

The walking stick slammed into the floor and thunder cracked through the crowded room. Gabi pressed trembling hands against her mouth.

“Yo magics ain’t gonna hold de girl. But de demon wolf’s teeth will. Summon yo’ godson.” Turning, the Baron winked at Addie. “Now. Where be de rum?”

Fragrant smoke—frankincense, rosemary, and
myrrh—drifted up from the large brazier Addie had provided, threading into air thick with tension and silence.

Gabrielle added another small handful of powdered frankincense to the brazier’s glowing charcoals, the incense crackling as it burned. White and blue candles dressed with High John the Conqueror root oil stood at either side of the brazier, flames dancing behind the smoke.

Gabrielle felt the Baron’s dark and coiled presence behind her, felt the weight of his sunglasses-hidden gaze. Felt each pair of wondering and accusing eyes. She drew in the spicy scent of hot-peppered rum too as she inhaled deeply and attempted to center herself, but her scattered thoughts—wild with worry and fear—refused to be corralled. So she stalled, fanning the smoke into the room and murmuring Psalms.

“Why standest thou afar off, O Lord? Why hidest thyself in times of trouble?”

The Baron laughed. “Because He be de smart one,
ma belle femme.
Now, get on with it.”

Gabrielle nodded, her hands clenching into fists. The last thing she wanted was to bring any harm or trouble to Kallie—Bon Dieu knew the girl had more than her share already. And the thought of putting her grief-shadowed and savage godson onto the girl’s scent made her feel sick.

Forgive me, Devlin. Forgive me, Kallie.

“Be merciful unto me, O Bon Dieu,” she intoned, tracing patterns and sigils in the smoke, “be merciful unto me; for my soul trusteth in thee: yea, in the shadow of thy wings will I make my refuge, until these calamities be overpast.”

“Amen,” someone gathered in the room said, echoed by several other voices.

“Devlin Daniels, I call you, boy. Rise from the bayou’s dreaming shadows, leave the hunt and attend me. Hear my voice,
mon filleul
. Step into the smoke and show yourself.”

The sweet-smelling smoke thickened and a shadow took shape within it—hair of tangled smoke, gray ash eyes—
wary
eyes—lean-muscled build, a bare sculpted chest, the pecs crisscrossed with old scars, jeans over narrow hips, bare feet.

She never
could
get the boy to wear shoes.

Devlin Daniels’s smoke avatar noted the
loa
standing behind Gabrielle and the wariness in his eyes increased. “Why you call me into de smoke,
ma marraine
?” His nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed. “And why de hell do I smell burning bindweed?”

Before Gabrielle could answer her godson’s accusation, the Baron said, “Because we need to bind you to a cause, bayou wolf.”

Devlin looked from the Baron to Gabrielle.
“Marraine?”
he asked, voice low.

Gabrielle nodded, folding her hands in front of her where Devlin could see them. “Baron Samedi’s right. We need you to track someone.” She moved her fingers discreetly in an old
loup-garou
sign language:
This girl is not to be harmed. She’s an innocent and needs to be protected.
“Kallie Rivière, a hoodoo in Bayou Cyprés Noir.”

Devlin blinked, indicating that he’d received her message.

“Yo’ godmother isn’t right about dat,” the Baron said. “Dis girl be no innocent.”

Gabrielle stiffened, her blood turning to ice. How had he seen her hands?

“Dis girl be responsible for de failure of de wards, for de hurricane bearing down on us at dis very moment. She be responsible fo’ all manner of unpleasant t’ings. I command you to bring her down, boy.”

The Baron stepped up beside Gabrielle and touched the end of his walking stick into the smoke. An image swirled into being beside Devlin’s avatar—an image of Kallie wrought in smoke: long, wavy hair, slightly tilted eyes, gray instead of purple, a sultry smile on her lips, graceful limbs, firm curves packed into cutoffs and tank top.

Devlin’s ashy eyes drank the image in.

The Baron instructed Devlin on where he might find Kallie—home or botanica. Then her image vanished when he dropped his walking stick back to the floor. Reaching inside his suit jacket, the Baron pulled out a length of purple cloth with a flourish.

A shirt, Gabrielle realized with a sinking feeling. A sleep shirt.

“I found dis on de girl’s bed when I paid anudder visit to her home,” the Baron said, extending the shirt toward Devlin.

Devlin’s nostrils flared as he drew in Kallie’s scent. Drew it in deep.

“Find her,” the Baron said. “Rip into her tender throat. Taste her blood. Feast on her heart. You be bound and compelled, demon wolf of de bayou, not tru magic but tru de will of Baron Samedi, de lord of de dead, de gatekeeper between worlds.”

With a powerful breath from his lungs, Baron Samedi blew away the smoke and Devlin vanished. Laughing, the Baron asked, “Who wants a drink befo’ we hit de road for Bayou Cyprés Noir?”

Knees weak, Gabrielle sank into the nearest chair, closed her burning eyes, and struggled against the urge to weep.

B
ent beneath the hood
of her 1970 Mach 1 Mustang—
Oooh! I like this dream
—Kallie pours thick amber oil into the funnel angling up from the V-8 engine’s fill hole. The low thunder of a motorcycle rumbles past, then drops down into a throaty idle as it stops in front of the Mustang.

“Need me to take a look beneath the hood, sunshine?” Layne asks, voice low and sexy, lending layers of naughty meaning to each word and sending a bevy of scorching butterflies through Kallie’s belly. “Check your fluid levels?”

Thinking of how he might do that—fingers, tongue, hot nomad dipstick—Kallie’s pulse thunders through her veins.

“Bet you’re good at lubing things up, road rider, but I think I’ve got this handled.” Kallie ducks out from beneath the hood and turns around, wiping her hands against the seat of her cutoffs, and helpfully thrusting out her breasts, cupped in a snug black bra.

Hmmm. Seem to be missing my shirt. How convenient.

“Still,” Kallie adds with a coy glance at Layne from beneath her lashes, “I wouldn’t mind an expert opinion.”

Swinging a leg over the seat of his road-dusted Harley,
Layne stands, a wicked smile playing across his lips as his green eyes take a slow pleasure cruise down her body—lingering on the bust she’s busy displaying to its best advantage.

His tattooed and chiseled chest is bare beneath his leather jacket and snug leather pants cling to his thighs, his very masculine charms.

“I’ll be glad to take a look,” he says, sauntering over to join her at the Mustang.

His thick, honey-blond dreads swing against his slim waist with a sensuous life of their own—in slow motion, no less. And as she watches, his leather pants morph into a blue and black plaid kilt.

Belladonna—you and your damned romance novels with their hot, mouth-dropping covers have a lot to answer for.

Kallie’s mouth goes dry as she imagines how his sandal-wood- and sweet-orange-scented dreads might feel trailing and tickling against her breasts, her belly, not to mention points farther south.

When Layne reaches Kallie, he doesn’t even pretend to look at the Mustang’s engine; his heated gaze locks with hers instead. He doesn’t hesitate. Without a word, he grabs her, one hand snagging in her hair, the other latching onto her waist, and yanks her against his hard body.

She smells musky desire and male sweat, tastes it as her mouth seeks his. His mouth closes over hers in a ravenous kiss. Grabbing his kilt-clad ass, Kallie kisses him back, hungrily thrusting her tongue between his lips to flick against his own. His arm snakes around her, leather jacket creaking and jingling, and pulls her closer still.

He devours her with his lips. Her breath catches in her
throat, a small moan, as she feels him growing hard against her belly. Remembering what she glimpsed beneath his wet boxers during the contest in New Orleans, her knees weaken.

His hand trails fire up the bare skin of her back so his fingers can oh-so-dexterously unfasten her bra. The straps slide down her shoulders, then Layne’s road-rough hands are cupping her breasts, fondling them with an urgent and hungry need as his lips trace a molten path down along her throat to her stiffened nipple and
—

—
the dream shifts.

Kallie finds herself running through a night-blanketed forest, cold mud squelching between the toes of her bare feet, gray fingers of Spanish moss whispering soft against her face as she ducks beneath oak branches.

A cry cuts through the air, a horse’s terrified scream. Kallie’s heart drums against her ribs. Ahead, she hears the thunder of hooves trampling the earth, behind she detects the stealthy and measured tread of a predator.

She’s caught between—racing toward one and fleeing the other.

And uncertain which is worse.

A huge weeping willow looms in her path, moonlight bleaching the cascading waterfall of pale leaves bone white. The slender, drooping branches rustle as though something crouches within the darkness beneath. Waiting.

A bird trills, a haunting sound. A nightingale.