Black Dust Mambo (7 page)

With Kallie Rivière in Lord Augustine’s custody and soon, no doubt, Dallas Brûler as well, she needed to find a way to get them both away from the Hecatean master before the nomad started his hunt. Walking across the room, Rosette swung open the slender French doors and stepped out onto the black wrought-iron-bordered terrace.

The early-morning air smelled fresh, laced with the sweet perfume of the jasmine and carnations growing in baskets along the lips of the railing and the moss-and-fish odor of the Mississippi. The diesel roar of buses and constant honk of horns told a tale of frantic morning-rush-hour traffic on the streets below.

Once she’d loved New Orleans. But now it only reminded her of dimming chocolate-dark eyes, of the vinegar and garlic stink of protective floor washes, of the murmur of useless prayers.

She’d grown up listening to Mama’s stories about the tall and handsome Creole she’d loved and married, the papa Rosette had never known, each word woven into the fabric of her being by Mama’s smooth and nimble voice.

“Oh, baby-girl, people came from all around the country to seek your daddy’s counsel and potions. They called him Doctor Heron because he could find and solve any problem, any jinx, just like a long-beaked heron spearing a fish. No better root doctor existed anywhere on earth.

“But one dark, dark day, a jealous and wicked witch named Gabrielle LaRue fixed her evil eye on your daddy and worked morning, noon, and night to destroy him.”

And had succeeded.

But Mama would’ve been appalled to know what they’d done—Rosette and Papa—in their efforts to settle the score. They had murdered an innocent man—a civilian and not a part of their war—body and soul. How could they ever atone for that?

“An eye for an eye is never enough.”

Remembering the tight-jawed grief on the nomad’s blood-streaked face, the unshifting granite of his eyes, green and hard, as cold as a winter-frosted tomb—Rosette had a feeling that, for him, no atonement would be possible except through shed blood and stilled hearts and dead souls.

It was a sentiment she understood. One she shared.

And even though Papa had laid the trick, Rosette had been just as culpable. She’d traded floors with another maid and had sneaked Papa into the hoodoo apprentice’s room. Then she’d stood watch as he’d stripped the bed and shaped the hex on the mattress.

Rosette knew she had to keep the nomad away from Papa, put an end to his hunt before it even began. Her pulse slowed as a clear light poured through her like molten sunshine, wisping away all shadows, all doubts.

She knew what she needed to do.

Rosette drew in a deep breath, then pulled her cell phone from her dress pocket and hit the speed dial. Papa answered on the first ring.

“Everything went wrong,” Rosette said. “The root doctor’s still alive, and someone else died in Kallie Rivière’s place.”

“‘Went wrong,’
chère
? Sounds like it musta gone to hell in a huge goddamned handbasket if both still be breathing. Sounds like you screwed up. Were you spotted?”

Not one question about who had died, not one word of regret. “No, Papa. But Lord Augustine’s got possession of my poppet.”

“Damned handbasket keeps getting bigger, Rosie,” Papa grumbled. “So where’s the Rivière girl now?”

Rosette paused, wondering if she should tell Papa about the nomad and what she’d seen in his eyes. Wondered if she should tell Papa what she’d seen in her own eyes the night Mama had died. Wondered if Papa had stared into his own mirrored reflection and had glimpsed the darkness dwelling within his heart, the monster deforming his soul.

“Rosette?”

“She’s in Augustine’s custody,” Rosette replied. “But I know how to fix that
and
how to keep Augustine from sending out the hounds.”

A moment of silence, then, “Keep talking,
chère,
” Papa replied.

N
INE
T
RAPPED
M
AGIC

Perched on the edge of a high-backed, sigil-carved chair, Kallie recounted her discovery of Gage’s body and the events that had followed in a low, calm voice as she watched Basil Augustine place the soggy, sulfur-reeking towel on a polished oak examination table.

Hand-carved sigils, ancient and powerful, swirled around the table’s rim. She suspected that the sigils acted like an electric fence, trapping all magicked items placed upon its surface until they were either removed by authorized individuals or their magic was dispelled.

Augustine spread the towel open, revealing the disemboweled poppet.

“And then you walked into the room,” she finished. “Yes. A good thing, too. Otherwise Mrs. Conti would’ve called the police.”

Kallie sighed. “Yeah.”

Augustine reached inside his suit jacket and pulled out a handkerchief-wrapped object. He unrolled the plain white cloth, revealing a slender steel pick that he used to poke at the poppet’s guts—sticks, torn cloth, red yarn, and a foul little knot composed mainly of what looked like Spanish moss, the other ingredients too wet to differentiate—except for that goddamned strip of paper.

“Squeamish much?” Kallie asked, unable to keep the amusement out of her voice. She’d bet anything that the Brit carried the pick for the express purpose of poking at things he deemed icky.

“Cautious when it comes to things of a dubious nature, Ms. Rivière.” Augustine’s gaze flicked across the smeared ink letters on the strip of paper. “Who is Gabrielle LaRue?”

“My aunt. The woman who raised me and my cousin.”

Augustine glanced at Kallie. “Ah. So your aunt is also a hoodoo. I imagine she taught you.”

“Conjuring runs in the family,” Kallie said. Then, thinking of her cousin, Jackson, she added, “For the most part.”

“You mentioned that Mr. Brûler was a family friend,” Augustine said, flipping the towel back over the disassembled doll. The bitter smell of wormwood twisted into the air. “Why would your aunt want him dead?”

“She doesn’t. She thinks the world of Dallas.” Kallie bit back the words “
but dozens of cuckolded men do
not
share those sentiments.”
“She taught him everything she knows about conjure.” Kallie shook her head. “She’s being set up.”

“Like you? Does being falsely accused of crimes run in the family also?”

Kallie stared at the Brit, her gaze icing over. “Y’know, you’re an asshole, and I wish I’d broken your goddamned jaw. Next time I will. Then I won’t hafta listen to your bullshit.”

Augustine touched his bruised jaw, and a rueful smile played across his lips. “I have no intention of giving you another opportunity to catch me off guard, Ms. Rivière. I’ve learned my lesson.”

“Doesn’t much sound like it,” Kallie muttered.

Augustine slid the pick, sheathed in its handkerchief once more, back into his pocket. He strolled around the table, grabbed the only sigil-free chair in the room, and placed it in front of Kallie’s. He sat down. “So tell me why you don’t think your aunt is responsible for that doll or for the attempt on Mr. Brûler’s life.”

Kallie regarded the Brit for a moment, taking his measure. His gaze was level, open, his expression attentive and intelligent. Might be an asshole, but at least he wasn’t an idiot. “For one thing, Gabrielle isn’t even here.”

“She could’ve hired someone to deliver the . . . poppet.”

“True, but Gabrielle is
beaucoup
skilled and one helluva rootworker. She never woulda put her name inside that poppet. She woulda written Dallas’s name a bunch of times on that piece of paper, along with what she wanted to happen to him—”

“Like drowning.”

“Yeah, that’s right. But to name herself like that and include it inside the trick? Nah, ain’t done. Ain’t like her, either. She’s a healer for the most part.” Kallie gathered her hair in her hands and tossed it behind her shoulders.

Augustine’s gaze lit like a fly on the thin, time-whitened scar an inch or so above her left eyebrow and slanting away into the hairline at her temple. “What happened there?” he asked, touching a finger to his own left eyebrow.

Kallie tried to remain casual. She shrugged. “Fell out of a swing when I was little.”

“Ah. I see.” Pursed lips. Dubious tone. “Well, then, do you and your aunt get along?” he asked, brushing wrinkles from his slacks and watching Kallie from beneath his lashes.

“Sure,” Kallie replied, relieved he’d dropped the subject of her scar. “Well, y’know, as good as any niece and aunt.”

“You said she raised you and your cousin. That’s quite a burden. Did she do it alone? What happened to your parents?”

A muscle played along Kallie’s jaw. “Yeah, she did it alone. She’s
beaucoup
strong, Gabrielle. And not that it’s any of your business, but my folks are dead.”

“My condolences, Ms. Rivière,” Augustine murmured. “That must’ve been hard on you and your aunt. Forced parenthood can take a toll, I’m afraid.”

Kallie straightened in her chair. “Take a toll? What the hell you mean by that?”

“You read about it in the papers all the time,” Augustine said, spreading his hands out. “Boyfriend shakes girlfriend’s baby to death. Woman drowns children in bathtub. Perhaps your aunt has had a hard time adjusting to being a parent.”

“You’ve got your goddamned head up your goddamned ass,” Kallie said, voice flat. Old emotions she thought she’d laid to rest long ago flickered to life. “Gabrielle’s
never
laid a hand on me or my cousin, Jackson. And even if she had, what would that have to do with anything?”

Holding up a placating hand, Augustine said, “All right, then, does your aunt hold any grudges against you?”

“No, dammit. Are you trying to say that my
aunt
laid that goddamned hex on my bed? Are you loco?”

“Given the timing of the attacks on you and Mr. Brûler, I’m simply considering all angles, Ms. Rivière. I suggest you do the same.”

“Listen. There’s no way my aunt is behind any of this. But given the power behind the hex and the poppet, whoever’s doing this is another hoodoo. Not just someone playing at it.”

“But that’s what I don’t understand. Since your aunt isn’t even in New Orleans, why would this mythical, rogue hoodoo bother to set her up for crimes here and not wherever you live?”

“Bayou Cyprès Noir,” Kallie supplied. Blowing out a breath, she trailed a hand through her hair, then shook her head. “I got nothin’. I don’t know of any feuds over clients or mojo or who’s been giving love potions to who or anything. None of this makes sense.”

“I certainly agree with that,” Augustine said. “A few possibilities come to mind, however.” He lifted his right hand and held up the index finger. “First possibility: you and Brûler are working together to frame your aunt for crimes committed by you, perhaps by both of you.”

“Why the hell would—”

“Ah-ah. Let me finish, please.”

Kallie snorted. “Fine.” She leaned back into her chair and folded her arms across her chest.

Augustine held up a second finger. “Second possibility: you decided to eliminate a few hoodoo rivals, including Brûler.”

Then why did I save him, asshole?
But, with effort, Kallie managed to keep the words unspoken and just arched a
go on
eyebrow instead.

A third finger popped up beside the first two. “Aunt Gabrielle sees a chance to finally be rid of the niece—and rival—she’s been burdened with and finds wicked New Orleans not only the perfect place, but a simply lovely alibi as well,” Augustine said; then he frowned. “Although one would think that a nice, quiet murder back home, the body dumped into a swamp to be devoured by crocodiles or alligators or what-have-you, would be much easier.”

Kallie nodded. “You’d think.”

Augustine’s pinkie lifted into the air. “And my current favorite possibility: you truly were the intended victim, your nomad lover killed by mistake. But given Brûler’s near death by poppet-drowning, you aren’t the only target.”

“Duh.”

Augustine lowered his hand and rested it against his thigh. “Now the question is, who hates you enough to want you dead—body
and
soul? Have you argued with anyone since your arrival in New Orleans?”

“Aside from the usual with Belladonna, no.”

“And Mr. Brûler? Did he also travel with you and Ms. Brown?”

“Nope. Me and Bell live, like, two hours away and he lives real close, in Chalmette, so he came by himself.” And that was another thing. Given that his place was only ten miles away, why was Dallas spending good money on a hotel room? “But I’m surprised he even wanted to attend.”

“Why is that?”

“Dallas thinks the carnival is for fools. We argued about it—”

Augustine perked up. His gaze intensified. “Argued?”

Kallie flapped a hand at him. “We just squabbled, y’know? Gave each other shit. Nothing like a you-suck-and-I-hate-your-guts screamfest or knockdown brawl. I thought he was just parroting Gabrielle’s beliefs, since she feels the same way.”

“Does she?” Augustine murmured. “A shame. So answer me this, Ms. Rivière, if Mr. Brûler believes the carnival to be a landlocked ship of fools, why is he here?”

“I don’t know, and I intend to ask him, but Dallas ain’t a part of this. He damn near died.”

“True, and I find that ‘damn near’ part intriguing,” Augustine replied. Leaning forward in his chair, he braced his arms against his knees.

A faint, alluring scent curled into Kallie’s nostrils, tobacco and vanilla. “Intriguing how?” she asked.

“You’ve heard of cases where a person hires someone to murder their spouse, then makes sure their hired thug also—but very carefully and with pre-determined precision—shoots or knifes or bludgeons them, as well, in a non-lethal manner, of course, to underscore their innocence.”

Kallie frowned. “Yeah, but what does that—” Then it hit her. She shook her head. “No, you’re wrong.”

“Possibly,” Augustine admitted, “but perhaps the relationship between Mr. Brûler and your aunt has changed. Perhaps they are now rivals.”

“Even if that was true, why would he try to kill
me
?” Kallie shook her head again. “’Sides, Dallas doesn’t have the kinda power it’d take to lay down a soul-eating trick.”

“
If
Mr. Valin is correct in his assessment.”

Kallie tilted her head, studying Augustine. “Why wouldn’t he be correct?”

Sighing, Augustine sat back in his chair, and trailed a hand through his hair. “Vessels tend to be a tad wobbly when it comes to sanity.”

“I hear that being worn like a cheap costume and used as a mouthpiece by the dead can do that to a person,” Kallie replied, her voice dry. “But Layne seems okay. I mean, aside from losing his clan-brother.” She looked down, grief and guilt tightening her throat.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine, Ms. Rivière. He’s not alone, after all.”

She lifted her gaze, all emotion tucked away again. “You’ve never lost anyone, have you?”

Something flickered in the depths of the Brit’s gray eyes, something as hollow and fragile as an empty bird’s nest revealed on a winter-stark tree, something that suggested she might be wrong about that statement. It vanished so quickly Kallie couldn’t be sure she hadn’t imagined it.

“So tell me, Ms. Rivière,” Augustine said, refusing to answer her question, “what do
you
think is going on?”

Kallie gathered her hair and pulled it over one shoulder as she considered. Separating the heavy mass into three sections, she started braiding it. “Someone’s hunting hoodoos,” she said finally.

“I don’t think so,” Augustine said. “I think it’s more personal than that. You, your aunt’s former protégé, an attempt to frame your aunt for murder. In truth, your aunt Gabrielle seems to be the connecting factor.”

Kallie went still, her fingers caught in her dark tresses. “
I’m sorry, baby. I ain’t got a choice.”
She shoved the memory away and resumed braiding her hair. “Sorry, I can’t think of anyone who’d want to get even with Gabrielle. I mean, at least, not beyond a small bad-luck trick or a bit of ill-health juju.”

“Are you certain of that? Your life and—if Valin’s correct—your soul depend upon it.”

“No, I’m not certain of anything,” Kallie said softly. Her fingers dropped away from her hair. “Look, I’m too tired, too rattled, and too goddamned hungover to think. I’d like to get a few of my things, then go to Belladonna’s room. Try to sleep.”

“Whoever tried to kill you won’t stop just because their first attempt failed,” Augustine pointed out. “You’ll be safest in here. The room is warded inside and out. I shall have your friend, a bed, and food brought in.”

“And assign some HA muscle to escort me to and from the bathroom?” Kallie shook her head, the plait in her hair unraveling in a slow twist. “I ain’t gonna be a prisoner. Me and Bell can throw some protection into place in her room. Hell, we’ll keep Dallas with us too.”

“Enough to keep you safe from the kind of power that can kill a soul?”

“I sure as hell hope so,” Kallie said, a wry smile brushing her lips. “I’m kinda counting on it. The only way we’re gonna find this bastard is to let him find me.”

“That didn’t work out very well for Gage Buckland.”

Kallie glared at the Brit. “You can go fuck yourself,” she said, voice low and strained.

“Whether you like it or not, you’re in danger, and anyone near you gets to join in on the fun—blood, death, and all—even if they’d rather not,” Augustine replied. “I plan to question each hoodoo registered at the carnival and check hotel employee records for anyone with connections to hoodoo or voodoo. But if someone else dies because the killer’s spell missed
you
—their death falls on your head, Ms. Rivière.”

Kallie stared at him, a muscle playing along her jaw. Her fingers curled around the sigil-embellished arms of the chair. “All right, goddammit, I’ll stay here. For now.”

Augustine smiled, then rose to his feet. “‘For now’ is a good start, Ms. Rivière. I shall send someone to fetch your friend, and I’ll make protective arrangements for Mr. Brûler as well. If you’re hungry, I shall have the kitchen send breakfast and coffee.”