Cursed (10 page)

Even knowing she needed to study, she found herself reaching for the black journal instead. Adrienne glanced into the living room to make sure her father was occupied with the television. She cracked the journal open and pushed through a few pages before deciding to start in the back. There were no dates in the journal, aside from the year embossed on the front cover, the year Therese spent in New Orleans with their father. If she ran into Jax, would there be some record of it?

Adrienne pulled out her French dictionary. If there was a mention of Jax, would she be able to decipher the jumbled French and English enough to understand it?

She sighed. Instead of translating, should she just skim for some mention of Jax?

She started at the back of the book once again, eyes falling to the protection symbols.

“He’s coming,” she repeated. She idly traced the robed figure with a finger. As before, her heart quickened of its own accord, as if some part of her sensed the danger she couldn’t define.

Perplexed, Adrienne flipped back a page. She hadn’t yet been able to determine what it was her sister was doing. She knew most of the veves from seeing them around her mother’s house. The only drawings that made no sense were those of the Red Man and the symbols around him.

A sketch of a zombie made her giggle. Therese had drawn it with googly eyes and a corny smile on its face. Adrienne saw several examples of her sister’s fun sense of humor and felt a familiar ache. They used to tell stupid jokes to each other all the time. Too poor to go to the movies or shop, they’d used their imaginations in a competition of who could make up the worst joke.

She could imagine Therese bent over her journal in the room that was now Adrienne’s, writing feverishly then laughing at the funny drawings as she made them.

Except it wasn’t a normal journal. It had a purpose, a special one that eluded Adrienne. Some of the writing and drawings were repetitive, as if Therese had an obsessive tendency as well.

The sketch of a fat heart caught her attention. It was in a corner of a page.

“J and T,” Adrienne murmured. She focused on this page. Pockets of writing were interspersed with veves.

Does Jax love me?

Adrienne sucked in a breath, startled to read one full, coherent sentence among the disjointed sentences on the pages. She looked up at the clock, dismayed to see two hours had passed. It was close to eight and she had homework to do.

Excited, Adrienne marked the page in Therese’s journal then set it aside with some difficulty.

She pulled a notebook and pencil from her bag and started taking notes of what homework she needed to do. Completing it would mean she’d be up half the night, and she tapped her pen against the notebook in frustration.

What if she couldn’t keep up? What if she lost her scholarship and never made it into the music industry? Christie told her talent scouts from major conservatories came to the academy. Did she have a chance of being discovered and given a scholarship to a prestigious conservatory or college known for its music program?

They were opportunities she hadn’t had at her Baptist school outside of Atlanta. She had to focus on studying.

What if the journal could tell her why she bore the mark of the curse?

Torn between her sister’s diary and homework, Adrienne pushed herself away from the table to grab a glass of water.

Homework tonight. Tomorrow, the diary,
she promised herself. She returned to the table and pulled out her Tarot deck, wanting to check her cards to see how tomorrow would be before she drowned herself in homework.

After handling them for a moment, she drew one.

“Page of Cups, Reversed.” She thought hared for a moment. “Proceed with caution.”

It was a generally good omen, one she took to be reasonable, given it was her second day of school and she’d already started to fall head over heels for a boy she didn’t know.

Not nearly as satisfied with this card as the one she drew the night before, she threw herself into her schoolwork with earnest.

A few blocks away, the man named Jax left the safety of his crew and strode through back alleys and side streets, headed to the same place he went every month. The balmy night was typical of a late Louisianan summer. He was the only one brave enough to cross through the St. Louis No. 1 cemetery after dark, knowing his gang was the one protecting the dead.

It had been this way for years, since Hurricane Katrina stripped the city of law and order. While the government and police forces had returned, there was a newfound, healthy respect for the voodoo gang that prevented looting, curbed crime and protected both living and dead in the aftermath of the storms. The stations in every ward knew who to call if there was an issue involving the voodoo community or in the crime-ridden Projects or other areas of New Orleans where routine police sweeps didn’t occur after dark.

Jax was the second leader of the gang. His late cousin, the son of his uncle Olivier DuBois, was the first to take on the sacred charge of leading up the voodoo gang and died in one of the occasional floods the city experienced over the past few years. Jax assumed the position after graduating college. It was a birthright more than a choice, for his uncle had only daughters after the death of his son.

“Hey, Jax.”

He glanced over at the uniformed police officer waiting for him at the exit of the cemetery, one of the many his gang routinely coordinated with.

“Yeah, Brannon,” Jax said, holding out his hand.

They shook. The officer was a deputy in the station nearest the Projects.

“Got an issue in the Irish Channel. Some tourist wandered off the beaten track and got hisself cornered by a drunk bokor or something,” Brannon said, handing him a note with an address. “Disappeared. We’re hoping it ain’t something related to black magic. Don’t need no more bad news in N’awlins to scare tourists away.”

Jax glanced at the address, recognizing the area. “We’ll take care of it.”

“Y’all hear anything else about the serial killer?” Deputy Brannon fell into step beside him.

“I’d tell you if I did.” Jax gave him a sidelong glance.

“I know. There ain’t nothing you can’t handle, Jax. Sometimes, the press asks too many questions.”

“Tell my uncle. Smoothing things over with his contacts in the press is his job. I’m just the muscle.”

“You and me both. Look, call me when you find this tourist.”

“Will do. Tell the boys at the station Rene will be in contact.”

Deputy Brannon nodded and offered a quick salute then turned and headed down the street to his waiting police car.

Jax texted the information Deputy Brannon gave him to Rene, who was his brother and second in charge of the street crew, then continued on his route. People took to Rene better than Jax, probably because they sensed Rene was gentle beneath his gruff exterior. Jax was feared for his willingness to resort to black magic, and Rene was regarded as the protector of those in trouble. Together, there wasn’t anything they couldn’t handle.

A devout member of the voodoo religion, Jax knew the price for harming another was steep, even if by accident. Every once in a while, someone in his position had no choice, especially if using black magic was the difference between life and death. The rumors about him were worse than the truth, but they helped keep the people of New Orleans safe. He’d pay the price for what he did down the road.

What was one more drop in the bucket of mistakes he’d made? He was already condemned after all he’d done.

Serial killer.
If they only knew what it was he was trying to do, they wouldn’t give the series of deaths such a name. No, Jax’s intention was much nobler than slaughtering innocents. When the women he performed the zombie rite on died, it was purely accident.

Jax found himself slowing, unable to shake the image of Adrienne from his thoughts. She looked too much like her sister for him to escape the memories. They’d been flowing hard and fast since yesterday, when he saw Adrienne in the alley. He’d heard she was in town and walked by her father’s apartment building frequently. Curiosity made him wonder how much she looked like Therese.

If he knew they were almost identical, he would’ve stayed away. He hoped his warning to her kept her away, because he didn’t know if he could trust himself around her.

Forgotten memories kept popping into his head, aching ones that made his breath catch. The first kiss with Therese, the way her skin smelled after they made love, the brilliant smile she saved just for him.

He shook his head. She’d been gone for five years, and it was like he’d just seen her, touched her. He couldn’t see Adrienne again. Out of respect for Therese’s memory, he couldn’t let himself be tempted. He’d keep her safe, the way he did her father, the members of his House and voodoo community that frequented this district
.

Jax pushed open the door to the Coffee Loa, a café that moonlighted as the hub of activity for the voodoo priest and priestess heading up House Igbo. Four people sat drinking espresso in the coffee shop.

The man behind the counter, a slender African man in jeans and a t-shirt, straightened when Jax entered. He waved him towards the back.

Jax went through one back room into the second, where the member of the House Igbo created his spells and potions to sell. A small amount of voodoo priests and priestesses sold spells and were known as
bokors.
Although most only sold healing or protective spells, this man was one of the few he know that would sell black magic spells. The scent of mummified animal parts and blood was covered by incense. A shrine to Baron Samedi, the god overseeing death and the dead, was on one side of the room, and Jax dipped his head to the god of death as he entered.

“You come twice this month,” Togoun Igbo said, heading towards a small refrigerator.

“I know.”

“Sit.”

Jax didn’t object, accustomed to the bokor’s way of doing business. There was no in-and-out, like at a normal store. No, Togoun’s routine was the same every time.

“You cannot keep asking from a god without giving back,” Togoun reminded him. “If you use black magic to harm another – ”

“- the penalty is threefold whatever harm I cause,” Jax finished for him. “You’re a
bokor
. Sell me my spell.”

“I do as always.” Togoun pulled a small, clay jar from the refrigerator and set it on the table beside Jax. “Take off your mask.”

Jax removed the skeleton mask he’d worn for five years, since Therese’s death.

Togoun pursed his lips in disapproval.

Jax grinned. “Gotcha.” He’d painted the skeleton on his face with Halloween make-up.

“You cannot hide what these spells are doing to you,” Togoun said. “You are losing your spirit, bit by bit.”

“I don’t care. I need to see her again.”

“Baron Samedi will dig her grave one day.”

“But he hasn’t yet. I refuse to let her go.”

Togoun never said anything more. He peered into Jax’s eyes as if looking for his soul then picked up the spell.

Jax handed him the normal fee: enough money to pay for Togoun’s rent for the month.

“I will need more blood next time,” Togoun said, accepting the payment.

“No problem.” Jax stood.

“Be careful, cousin. One of the original four Houses has returned to New Orleans. This family bears a curse strong enough to harm any involved with it. The Toussaints are unhappy about it, and your own DuBois relatives are worried.”

Been there. Done that.
“Yeah, thanks.”

“You know this House?” Togoun asked.

“I do. St. Croix. One of them moved here a long time ago,” Jax replied.

“Therese St. Croix,” Togoun said, realization crossing his features. “The girl you mourn every month.”

“Yeah. I met her the summer after I graduated college. Her sister is here. She’s harmless. Tell the Toussaints not to interfere,” Jax said firmly. “She’s under the protection of House DuBois.”

“Does your uncle know this?”

“My word is enough.”

Togoun dropped his gaze at Jax’s sharp look.

“My uncle is the head of the family, but these are my streets, Togoun,” Jax said quietly. “Just do what I tell you.”

“I know.”

Jax turned and left. He tucked the cool clay jar in his pocket and stalked out of the shop. He tugged his mask back on then pulled up his hood. The apartment building where he lived was between the coffee shop and where Therese used to live, a lengthy walk across wards and through back alleys patrolled by his crew. He greeted a few as he crossed their paths. His brother, Rene, was probably on his way to the Irish Channel after taking care of their mother, who was confined to a wheelchair. Though he could throw down as well as any other member of LO, Rene was more sensitive than Jax had ever been to the emotions of those around him. He’d taken on the responsibility of caring for their mother, which Jax should have done.

Jax trotted up to the second floor where his apartment was.

Since he’d seen Adrienne, he hadn’t been able to think clearly. Normally, he waited for Rene to take their mother on her monthly trip to a special clinic in Baton Rouge. Jax stayed at her row house for two days while they were gone. He usually performed the rite in the attic of his mother’s home.

He only needed twenty-four hours. The black magic that drew Therese’s wandering spirit into the body Jax chose for her never lasted longer and many days, didn’t make it past twelve hours.

Jax’s pulse was flying by the time he reached for his doorknob. In under an hour, he’d rid himself of the need and pain he’d felt since running into Adrienne.

“Loa Yemaya, goddess of femininity and protector of those who cross between life and death,” he whispered. “I know it’s not a full moon, but I beg of you and my ancestors to bless me tonight and forgive me for any harm I cause.”

He opened the door to his apartment. It was quiet, aside from the rustling that came from his bedroom. He locked his door and tossed his jacket then went to the kitchen. There was no food in the cramped space. He’d converted it into a shrine for Baron Samedi and another for the loa Ogoun, the warrior god that watched over his family.

Jax lit candles and knelt, praying to the various spirits,
gods and goddesses.

“I seek your forgiveness and your compassion for what I am about to do. Samedi, guide her spirit true. Ogoun, give me strength and Yemaya, keep my hands steady, so that I may feel the beauty of the female spirit. I will bring you my sacrifice after the rite. Amen.”

He pulled the clay bottle out of his pocket and reached for the blood-flecked knife on the counter. Adrenaline raced through him to the point of his ears roaring. He pulled his mask off and his shoes, then paused before the doorway of his bedroom.

With a deep breath to calm himself, Jax opened the door.

Streetlight lit up the woman on his bed. Her hair was dark, her skin pale. She looked nothing like the St. Croix girls, but she didn’t need to. The part of Therese he needed wasn’t her body.

The woman looked towards him, her eyes widening. He knew what she’d see: the man with a skeleton face. He wore the mask – or face paint – since Therese died. It was how he mourned and one of the ways he honored Baron Samedi, often depicted with a skeleton face.

Jax looked over the woman in his bed.

She pulled at the handcuffs holding her in place. A gag was in her mouth and her feet tied at the ankles with rope. Her makeup was smeared from tears, her nose red from crying. She wore a bra and underwear, and goose pimples turned her exposed skin from smooth to rough. She felt the blood magic he was calling upon. She smelled of herbs and ritual powders he’d dressed her with during the first stage of the rite.

“What happens tonight is an honor,” he told her. “You will become the living host for the spirit of the woman I love most.”

She listened.

“I promise you, my goal isn’t to kill you. Sometimes the rite fails or the Red Man senses Therese’s spirit and might slaughter you. But those things aren’t intentional, and I will do everything I can to bring you back.”

The woman tried to speak to him, probably to beg. Tears fell faster down her face.

“The pain doesn’t last long,” he promised the woman.

Jax closed the door to his bedroom and approached the bed, raising the knife.

I am not a killer.