Fire Baptized (16 page)

He had a point.

I nodded and grabbed the joint. My back was to Zulu, but I knew he would be disappointed. He didn’t smoke or drink. I had no idea what he did to relieve his stress, but I needed to find out, so I could partake.

“I don’t need your trust,” Zulu said. “I want Lanore in a safe place.”

“Is your apartment that safe haven?” MeShack leaned against the wall.

“Stop it, MeShack,” I said. “And, Zulu, wherever I go, MeShack and Ben must come. We’re a package deal, so I don’t think your condo would be appropriate.”

“What about The Inked Guerilla?” Zulu asked.

“We can’t sleep in a tattoo shop.” MeShack gestured for me to return the joint.

“It’s more than a shop. There’s a huge warehouse behind it with lots of rooms,” I replied as I gave him his joint. “We usually let homeless Mixies stay there, especially single mothers with kids.”

“We?” MeShack raised his eyebrows.

“Well, Zulu,” I corrected.

“She created the program. It was her idea.” Zulu moved to the door table and sat down with a frown on his face. “I’ll set up two rooms for you, and have my security team reinforce the glamour around the shop.”

“We’ll only need one room.” I shook my head. “I feel bad about taking up space from people who need it.”

“No.” He looked at MeShack. “Two rooms.”

“He doesn’t want me to share your bed.” MeShack laughed. “Sorry, but two rooms won’t stop me.”

A deep growl expelled from Zulu’s throat.

“You have something to say?” MeShack stamped the joint out on his tongue and tucked it behind his ear. “Because I’m not convinced you’re not the murderer. The night La La sees the killing, you happen to come by for the first time. Additionally, the killer is a Shifter, and you smell like one to me.”

“That’s quite enough. He’s not the murderer. And if you really thought he was, you would have killed him.” I rolled my eyes. “And I thought we already established that everybody’s dick is equal.”

“Yeah.” MeShack leaned his head to the side. “But we didn’t decide who La La belongs to.”

“I belong to myself.” I walked to my bedroom and stood in front of the door. “So are we all agreed? Are we temporarily moving to The Inked Guerilla? Will you come with Ben and me?”

“Of course,” MeShack said. “I’ll be where you both are. But do I have to be on my best behavior for blondie over there?”

Zulu stood up.

I blew out a long breath, irritated with the posturing on both sides.

“If you’re not good, I’ll burn your—”

“Yeah, I know.” MeShack strolled to his bedroom. “You’ll burn my balls off.”

After we arrived at
MFE
, MeShack took Ben to the movies to give them both some fresh air.

I sat in my new room, taping up charts on the wall.

Each god from the Seven African Powers had their own chart. The four gods that had already received sacrifices were on the right wall. I’d put the victims under each god along with their colors, foods, and themes. The three remaining gods, Oshun, Shango, and Yemaya, were on the left.

I stood back, admiring my handiwork. With everything organized in this manner, I could clearly identify any similarities. I held one of MeShack’s books on Santeria in my arms, scanning the pages for important information. It helped. Apparently, each god had a particular day in the week in which the god expected offerings, and once a year, they each had a feast day to celebrate them.

I’d linked the gods’ offering days with the murders. Each time the killer murdered someone, it was on that specific god’s offering day.

Hope sparked within me. I could predict the next god that the killer would be sacrificing for, just by knowing the offering day. Maybe if I knew the god, I could guess the victim.

Monday was Eleggua’s offering day, on which the killer sacrificed Gabe’s sister. On Tuesday, Carmen was given for Ogun’s offering day. Wednesday had been Ray for Obatala. None of the Seven had an offering day for Thursday, which was last night.

I made a note and moved on.

Friday was shared by two gods: Oya and Yemaya. For whatever reason, the killer had chosen to give Gabe to Oya. Under Oya, I wrote in big letters, ‘Rocks is here.’ It was the message Gabe had given Ben. I had no idea what it meant or if it was important.

I went back to my notes.
Why didn’t he sacrifice anybody on Thursday?
Thursday was Oshun’s feast day. It would have been the perfect time to give an offering to Oshun.
Why didn’t he?

I wrote the question down and went back to logging data.

Oshun’s regular offering day was tomorrow, which was Saturday. If this psycho was going to continue his method, tomorrow would be a new victim.

If I was the killer, who would I offer for Oshun that worked at the strip club?

I didn’t know any other dancers besides Star, but Goldie popped into my mind. He’d be the perfect offering. At the feast day, he’d been draped in Oshun’s pictures. I also doubted his name was even Goldie.

I mean, who would really name their son that?

He’d even bragged to me that Oshun was the god that picked him at his initiation ceremony.

Yes. If I was the killer, I would offer Goldie.

And then it hit me. All of the victims had Goldie in common. Everybody worked at the strip club, except Ray, who was Goldie’s good friend. Clearly, I wasn’t the killer’s only object of affection. The murderer had a psychotic admiration for Goldie as well.

Throwing the Santeria book on my bed, I decided to phone him.

I wasn’t one hundred percent sure he’d be the next victim, but I knew I had to warn him, just in case. Worst-case scenario, he could help me figure out the next possible targets and maybe even suspects.

I picked up my phone. Zulu had given me Goldie’s private number earlier.

The phone rang twice.

“Goldie here,” he said, in a chipper voice that gave me the impression he was smiling on the other end.

“Hey, it’s Lanore. I have to tell you some bad news and discuss some other things with you.”

“Goldie, has nothing but time for Lanore.”

“Good, because I have a lot to say.” I immediately broke the news of Gabe’s death. There was no time for subtly easing into it.

“Gabriel, the janitor?” he asked.

“Yes. He was killed like all of the others, covered in paint with—”

“Excuse me. The others?” Goldie interrupted. “Are there more than Ray and Gabriel?”

“Yes. Carmen and Candy were killed earlier this week,” I replied. The habbies still hadn’t announced the identities of the deaths. No one knew that there was a psycho running around the habitat killing people.

“Goldie, are you still there?” I asked.

“No one told me this. I thought Ray was the only one,” Goldie said. He’d immediately stopped referring to himself in third person. “The girls were painted when they died?”

“All the victims were. And this may sound strange, but I strongly believe that all four victims were being sacrificed to Santeria gods. They were painted in each of the god’s favorite color and on their offering day. I can break down each murder—”

“May the gods be damned,” Goldie said in a shaky voice.

“Excuse me?”

“The deaths . . . they are too familiar to something that happened years ago.” Goldie blew air over the phone, causing a weird static sound. “Were the offerings to the Seven Powers?”

“Yes,” I replied as adrenaline rushed through me.

He knew who the killer was. This was almost over.

“I must do something first,” he insisted. “And then I need to sit down with you and Zulu.”

“Do you know who the killer is?” I paced in my room. “If you do, I need to know now. I won’t wait for the information.”

“Lanore, I understand, but I have to warn these families,” Goldie insisted. “It’s the least I can do. They may be in trouble.”

“What families? Damn it! You tell me now or I’m coming down to that club and setting it on fire,” I threatened. “Then I’ll go to your house and your relative’s house—”

“Wait a minute. There’s no need for threats. I don’t know who the killer is.”

“But you know something, right?” I stopped pacing.

“Your descriptions remind me of murders from ten years ago.” Goldie paused for a few seconds and said, “They were done by my childhood friend, Theodore Smith.”

I fled to my notebook on the other side of the room and wrote down the name.

Goldie cleared his throat. “Myself and two others helped the habbies catch him. I can tell you more later, but I have to call these families immediately—”

“So you think Theodore Smith is killing again?” I asked.

“No.” Goldie’s voice sounded low and pained. “Theodore was executed ten years ago. I don’t know who this new killer is, but we need to be prepared and put our heads together.”

“I think the killer wants to offer you to Oshun,” I blurted out.

“I think you’re right. Someone attacked me last night in the parking lot at the Enchanted Drummer. If two drunken guys hadn’t stumbled out, I may have been killed.”

“Did you see the attacker?”

“No. I was hit from behind and the next thing I knew, someone yelled, ‘Stop! What are you doing?’ Then my attacker ran off, and the men came to me, picking me up.”

“I’m sending Rebels to guard you,” I insisted. “Where are you right now?”

“In my office at the club. And thanks for the protection.”

“Okay. Make your calls to warn your friends and wait for the Rebels.” I’d already started heading out the door. “Zulu and I will get back with you.”

I turned the phone off and headed down the hallway. Rebels in partial shift lined the walls. Bright colors draped their bodies. Fur covered all their faces. A few of them nodded, as Nona stepped out in front of me.

“You quick, mon. Why so fast?” she asked.

“I need you to send some of your people over to guard Goldie.”

“The crazy one who talk about himself?”

Smiling, I nodded. “Yes. Please send them to his office. Goldie should be able to help us find this killer.”

“Good.” She turned around and glanced at two Were-wolves in lime-green velvet jumpsuits. “You hear her. Hit your feet against the pavement.”

They sped off in the other direction in a green blur.

“Is Zulu in his office?” I asked.

“No, him had a rough night. Him home, me think.”

“Well I’ll be in his office if anybody needs me. I have to use his computer,” I declared, passing a few pots full of burning sage and heading to the warehouse in the back.

I strolled through the main lobby of the tattoo shop. Swirls of bright blue and yellow decorated the walls. Speakers hung in the air, blasting a song about redemption. A copper sculpture of a screaming body in chains hovered over the lobby desk. Five of my Pixies climbed on the sculpture, playing. I had told Ben to make sure they stayed in his room, but he must have let them out. I would have to catch them all after I was done on Zulu’s computer.

A Were-hyena stood under the sculpture, looking into her mirror. Purple spikes of hair shot up from her head. Black fur covered her mouth. Tan fur covered the rest of her face. She applied red lipstick to her black lips and then peeked over her mirror at me.

“Hey, Quinn,” I said.

“Hey, yourself. Are you comfortable? Need anything?” Quinn asked in a light voice, sounding like a three-year-old girl.

“Everything is perfect. Thanks for organizing our move and making MeShack and Ben feel at home,” I said as she returned to applying her lipstick.

“Good, because it has not been perfect for me.” She put the mirror down. “I’ve been cleaning up Pixie poop all night.”

I stifled a giggle. “I’m sorry, Quinn. I’ll take care of it.”

“You’re lucky you helped me get an A in Vamp Lit, or I would have snacked on them.”

“Not funny.”

“Neither is Pixie poop,” she added.

I strolled by empty tattoo and piercing booths on my left. A black, beaded curtain appeared at the end. Beads hung from the ceiling and extended down to the floor. If a regular person pushed away the curtains, they’d only find a tiny hallway heading to two bathrooms. Only
MFE
and the Rebels knew that you had to knock three times on the center of the bead curtain to gain access into the warehouse.

I knocked. The beads shook and sparkled around my fist.

Marijuana mixed with brimstone pierced through the beads and singed my nostril hairs. I strolled through the curtains and heard chanting and cheering within the darkness.

Hundreds of Rebels came into view as my eyes adjusted to the candlelight. This was their home, a place where they could relax in partial or full shift, without getting arrested or being treated like outcasts. Zulu allowed them to stay in the warehouse, providing them with anything that they needed to remain comfortable.

“Hey, professor,” a teen Were-dog said.

I waved back. I’d taught him and some other Mixies how to read. He’d been calling me professor ever since.

Rebels made room for me to amble by as I continued to the far end of the warehouse. A few handed marijuana pipes to each other. I coughed as the smoke drifted my way. An old Shifter stood on a three-foot wooden box, yelling into a microphone. She had a tangerine-colored shawl wrapped around her shoulders, and wore a sky blue dress. Her thick gray dreadlocks draped her body and fell to the floor. Candles surrounded her. Most of the Rebels called her Mother Earth.

“Death to imprisoners!” she yelled in a deep voice and then smoked from a six-foot-long wooden pipe that rested its bottom on the floor. “Fire pon them Human castrators! Keep we in a cage, when we hold the power!”

“Yeah, mon!” shouted several Rebels.

“Pain to blood exploiters!” she screamed. “Take we blood and make a profit off we strength!”

I kept walking, hoping the shadows hid my grimace. Unease swam in my stomach. I clutched my center.

Working with the Rebels would be a complicated balancing act. For now,
MFE
and the Rebels shared the Purebloods as an enemy, but I wasn’t sure if that would always be the case. I didn’t think they would be satisfied with peaceful negotiations and equality compromises. They wanted bloodshed and war with the bourgeois Purebloods and Human government. What would they do when
MFE
didn’t give them what they wanted?

I added having a serious talk with Zulu to my rapidly growing list of things I needed to do after I set the killer on fire.

Zulu’s office was unlocked, as usual. I stepped in, heading to his lemon-colored desk. A large map of Miami, the Human city surrounding the habitat, hung on the wall. I’d stolen the map from the library a year ago. Curiosity piqued my interest to check the map out and see what he was using it for. I noticed immediately that he’d stuck markers into the map and labeled them as exit roads and tunnels from Santeria to Miami.

I would have to find out what he was up to now. Another addition to my list.

I looked at the open book on his desk and scanned it. He’d highlighted paragraphs, discussing the medical consequences of removing brands.

Fuck me.
A throbbing pain started at my temples.

If my assumptions were right, Zulu didn’t just want to emancipate Mixies. He wanted to free us all from the habitat. I would have to tread lightly and make sure he didn’t get himself or any
MFE
members killed.