New Title 1 (4 page)

Chapter Four

Oh, fuck.

The first thing that came to Yara’s mind was “kill the target,” but after she took a quick look at the young vampire’s face, she relaxed a bit. His deer-in-the-headlights eyes clearly showed he was as surprised to see them as they were to see him.

“Oh, pardon me, miladies,” he said, bowing low. “I heard noises and thought there were unwanted guests in the pool room, so I rushed over to check it out.”

“What noises did you hear, Mr …?” Yara asked sharply.

“Remi, ma’am,” he replied with a hint of French in his accent.

“And what is your post, Remi?” Sam asked, sounding as inquisitorial as Yara felt.

Yara narrowed her eyes at him, as if saying “don’t you dare lie to us,” and from the corner of her eyes she saw Sam take a menacing step closer. The guy’s Adam’s apple worked up and down. A lock fell away from his perfectly done rockabilly hair-do. Yara’s nose got the whiff of sulphur, the unmistakable smell of fear.

“I’m the … I’m …” he shuddered his way to an answer. 

“Remi!” Arthur’s sharp tone echoed in the narrow corridor. “Why are you disturbing the queen?”

“I wasn’t!” Remi replied, finally finding his voice.

“Apologize at once,” Tardieh’s house manager ordered.

Remi looked exasperated, like an innocent school kid who was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“There’s no need, Arthur,” Zoricah intervened, “Remi didn’t do anything wrong. We were just coming out of a very self-absorbing girl talk and got startled, that’s all.”

Arthur glared at the younger vampire again, then relaxed – as much as a strict, centuries-old British vampire would. “I apologize for any inconvenience, my queen.”

“Don’t worry, Arthur, there was no inconvenience,” Zoricah reiterated.

She was such a good person that Yara was certain she would ensure this Remi guy wouldn’t get scolded again.

Suddenly, Yara’s nose caught another scent. Her eyes snapped to Zoricah. Her friend, the new queen of vampires, looked quintessentially green. Crap
–
she was going to puke in front of Arthur and Remi.

“Well, it’s great that all misunderstanding was clarified,” Yara jumped in, overly slurring the words out. “But what I still can’t understand is why can’t Dyam be nice to me!” She leaned forward pretending to lean on Zoricah but her hands hooked around her friend’s arms, keeping her up.

Sam frowned. “Yara, what in Hiad are you…”. She paused mid-sentence after Yara flashed her a “get on with the program” look. “Right, OK … Z, I think Yara had a bit too many Sea Breezes for one night. We should take her back to our bedroom.”

“No!” Yara shouted. “I’m gonna
thalk
to Dyam, I’m gonna
asth-k
him why?” She threw her arms up in a perfect Spanish soap opera moment. “WHY doesn’t he like me?”

“See you later, Arthur,” Zoricah said weakly. Yara could feel her body temperature dropping by the second.

“I’ll help you take Lady Yara to her quarters.”

“No!” all three of them shouted.

“That’s alright, Arthur, we can manage from here,” Sam said, as Yara pulled Z toward the long stairway. “Please tell King Tardieh we may be gone for a while.”

They managed to make it to the top without calling too much attention. The moment they cornered into the bedroom wing, Zoricah collapsed. It took every ounce of Yara’s powers to hold her up before she fell face-first on the floor.

“Oh dear Gods!” Sam breathed, her hands covering her mouth.

“Stop moaning and help me hold her up!” Yara snarled.

She complied. “I’m sorry. I’m just not used to seeing Z so weak.”

Together they managed to cross the long corridor, descend another set of stairs, then get into the royal quarters and lay Zoricah safely on the bed.

“Bring me a glass of cold water and a hand towel, please,” Yara asked Sam, as she accommodated Z in the middle of the mattress.

Sam came back in record time with what she had been asked to get.

“I’m OK, feeling better …” Z moaned.

“No, you’re not,” Yara replied. “And if you don’t close your eyes and lay down like a good girl, I’ll kick your newlywed ass to Hiad.”

Z complied without a fight.

“Sam, please pat her forehead and neck with the cold water while I try to balance her inmã.”

“Can you do that?” Sam asked, already soaking the small towel.

“It’s been a long time … but I think it will work.”

Yara rubbed her palms together, warming them up. Then she placed them above Zoricah’s heart and closed her eyes. She felt her friend’s powerful energy flowing through her body, from her heart to her head, back to her core. But there was an interruption, something was draining all Z’s power toward the belly. Yara’s hands drifted that way, following the energy flow. Bingo. She felt it, as clear as daylight.

She retrieved her hands and crouched by the bed on her heels, and stared numbly at her weakened friend.

Deep wrinkles formed on Sam’s alabaster brow. “Can you help her?”

Yara couldn’t form the words. She stared at Z, her best friend, her leader, and knew that things would never be the same. 

“Yara?” Sam called. “So?” She asked again, exasperated.

“Yes, I can calm her inmã. It will help get through the night, but I have to make her a gravid potion as soon as possible.”

“Gravi what?”

“A special potion to soothe her stomach.” 

“I can sneak into the kitchen unnoticed,” Sam offered. “What do you need?”

Yara shook her head. “What I need can’t be found in this kitchen. I have to go to the city and procure them myself.”

“Do whatever you have to do to make this damned nausea go away,” Z begged weakly.

Yara placed her hands above her friend’s belly again. “I’ll do what I can, Z, but I’m afraid this nausea is just the beginning.”

Chapter Five

Yara didn’t bother putting the blinker on. At that time of night, there was no need. She drove her black BMW Z4 along Northern Boulevard and turned right on 36th Avenue. It hadn’t been a good call to come to Astoria on a sports car but she hadn’t had much choice. After working on Z’s energy and settling her inmã, Yara had less than a few minutes to change, then climb down her window, crawl around the edge of the garden where the party was still going, and jump in her car before Arthur or any of the other servants noticed. She had to find the herbs tonight, otherwise Zoricah would be in deep trouble tomorrow. Her magic was not as powerful as it used to be, it had been over half a century since she last used it, unaided by her panther, that is. She needed much bigger guns to help Z, and herbs were always great ammunition.

She drove down the empty street and found a spot a few meters from the modest storefront. Despite the late hour, she knew Dona Carmen would still be awake. A lot of people thought that the Brazilian community got together on 46
th
Street. But they were wrong. That Little Brazil was just for show, the real one was found in Astoria, Queens. It might not be as fancy as midtown Manhattan, but it was here that the real South American pulse pumped, in tune with the drums, of course.

She beeped the car alarm on and prayed for the Soartas to take good care of her baby. Astoria was a great place, but not the safest. Joel had asked her once why she hadn’t gone for a motorbike; they were so much faster and exciting, he’d said. Her answer? A cat woman on a bike. So last century.

Dona Carmen’s shop seemed deserted; lights were out and the metal rollup doors were embellished by several padlocks. Yara perused around. No signs of movement, but they were there, she could feel them. She closed her eyes and called on her panther. Her feline inmã responded instantly, sharpening her senses and enhancing her talents. The hypnotic music of African drums reached her, followed by a strong smell of cigars. Following her senses, Yara went to the edge of the shop, jumped over the small gate and jogged down the dark alley. The tune got louder, the smell of smoke got more powerful at each step she took. She felt the vibrations of the spirits roam around her, inviting her inmã to dance.
Not tonight, my friends
. The alleyway led to a backyard, protected by a tall wooden fence. She could have easily jumped over it, but that would’ve been extremely rude, and witches respected their kin. So she knocked instead.

Her ears pricked up and caught the sound of sandals flip-flopping on grass. A few seconds later, a short dark woman peeked through the wooden panels. She didn’t ask who it was. As soon as her gaze landed on Yara, the woman opened the door and stepped back to let her in.

“
Noite
, Dona Carmen,” Yara saluted the old witch with a nod.

Dona Carmen nodded in return. “
Faz tempo
,
minha fia
,” she replied in Portuguese.

“Yeah, it has been a while indeed,” Yara agreed. “Unfortunately, an urgent matter brings me here tonight.”

Carmen nodded once, then turned around and made her way to the main yard, toward the drums. Yara had always admired the Brazilian cult of Candomblé. It was vibrant with guttural rhythms and hypnotic chants. Even though it was first nurtured by the African slaves when Brazil was still a Portuguese colony, the religion had managed to bring together several opposing tribes, morphing into something truly
multi
: multi-cultural, multi-belief, multi-national. Candomblé followers prayed for ancient African gods, the
Orixás
, as well as for Jesus Christ and Virgin Mary. Beautiful.

Yara watched the cult members carry on with the rituals as Dona Carmen chatted to the high priestess – a heavy woman smoking a cigar, on a wicker chair located on the edge of the human circle. She wore a wide skirt and flimsy blouse made out of white linen and lace. Her head was covered by a turban made of similar fabric and her neck was adorned by colorful beaded necklaces.

A priestess left the circle and started dancing in the middle, stomping her feet on the ground, lifting the dirt up. The drums picked up the pace, as her movements became more and more frantic. Yara kept to the shadows, she knew what would come next. It was best not to call too much attention to herself. Suddenly, the priestess dancing started shaking uncontrollably. She dropped to her knees as the trembling increased and her chant became louder. Her eyes rolled back and foreign words poured out of her mouth. Her features were the same but different, her demeanor more imposing, more solid. She wasn’t herself anymore – her protector
Orixá
was coming. The drums increased the tempo, enticing all other pupils to also awaken their inmãs. After a few spellbinding seconds, the priestess went completely still and glared straight at Yara.

The entire house came to a halt in anticipation.

Magic was magic, no matter which religion you were from, and true practitioners respected each other. The problem was when one of the spirits decided to take offense at the presence of an uninvited guest. Yara had been a fool to think she’d come and go unnoticed.

She carefully stepped out of the shadows and noded in greeting, showing she was just passing by.

“The enemy,” the lady shouted pointing at Yara, “the enemy is closer than you think.”

Yara frowned. Usually her encounters with Candomblé deities were less vocal. She bowed in reverence, showing her gratitude for the warning, but knowing that there was little she could do about it. In her line of duty, the enemy was always near.

The high priestess stood up and walked to her pupil standing in the middle of the circle. Mumbling a prayer, she put a beaded rosary around the lady’s neck then waved to the others, motioning them to continue without her.

And so they did, and Yara’s presence was forgotten. The sacred ritual would most certainly finish after sunrise, no matter what.

“Long time,
pantera-bruxa
,” the old lady greeted Yara. She had never really told them who she was, but somehow everyone there called her “panther-witch.”

“Yes, too long, Mother,” Yara replied, bowing low in reverence, acknowledging the woman’s official title.
Mother of Saint.

“Did you come to offer your prayers to our gods?”

“I wish times were more peaceful,” Yara said softly, “Apologies for interrupting your rituals, Mother, but urgency is an impatient cherub.”

“Aye,” the old woman nodded, then puffed her cigar a couple of times. Smoke danced around Yara. “I can feel your unsettled spirit. The panther is not happy.”

“No, Mother, the panther is very disturbed.”
If only you knew how much, human priestess.
  “One of mine is in great need of your herbs.”

Another puff made its way up in the sky.

Yara waited. She and the priestess had danced to this tune many times before. One of them would ask the favor, the other would play along, prying for information, until the reward was agreed and the deal was settled.

“Herbs of healing … or herbs of sadness?” the priestess prodded.

Good question. Did Yara want to heal Zoricah, or kill whatever was making her sick?

A quarter of an hour later, Yara was back in her car with two small bags – herbs of healing were always the first choice, but if they didn’t work, it was good to have a few other options within reach.

She roared the engine to life and started her journey back to Tardieh’s, praying for the Soartas that she’d never have to use the herbs of sadness.

**********

Mother watched as the panther-witch’s car disappeared in the dark streets of Astoria. It had been a long time since the daughter of the water witches had paid her a visit. She had wanted to ask more questions about the woman for whom she had come for aid, but it wasn’t her place to pry. One thing she was certain though – the spirit panther was restless. She had felt its energy pace around, agitated, impatient as if waiting for something that should have happened but hadn’t yet.

“Not good,” she mumbled.

“What’s not good, mother?” Dona Carmen asked coming to stand beside her by the small gate.

“Not sure yet, but good it can’t be,” she replied then took another drag of her thick cigar. “Let’s go back inside. The night is growing too unsettled for roaming.”

The gate doors creaked open. Both women turned around, startled. Who was it now? One unexpected guest had been enough, and at least the
pantera-bruxa
had knocked first!

“Who’s there?” Dona Carmen called out. Her voice carried a hint of fear.

A blond giant man stepped out of the shadows. His spirit was so powerful, so imposing, that the priestess was shoved backwards by invisible hands.

“Holy Gods,” she breathed.

The giant looked like an angel, with blond hair and grey eyes, but deep inside he burned with the fires of hell. Dona Carmen had definitely felt it too, because she dropped to her knees and started praying for her protector
Orixá
.

“Now, now, old lady,” the handsome devil said. “There’s no need to call for backup.”

“It’s late. The shop is closed, Mr …” Mother replied trying to sound more confident than she felt.

“Phillip, just call me Phillip,” he replied with a smile that never reached his eyes. “I apologize for barging in on such an inappropriate time. I just want to ask you a few questions about the woman who has just left.”

“Come back tomorrow and maybe we’ll help you.”

“Hmm, you see, priestess,” he murmured, “All I want to know is what she was carrying and why she was carrying it, that’s all. Tell me the truth and we’ll be OK.”

She frowned at the undercurrent threat. A cold shiver went down her spine. Somehow she knew that they were going to be far from OK.

He smiled and his grey eyes went suddenly bright yellow, and flames danced inside. “I promise.”

Her spiritual guides screamed inside her head, just as she shouted, “Run, Carmen, run!”

Mother’s feet stomped on the grass in a desperate search for safety, but her old bones were not like they used to be. They hurt and refused to obey. She heard Dona Carmen tumble and fall down with a grunt.

“Carmen!” she yelped and turned around to help her old friend. As she bent down, her gaze met Phillip’s, and her limbs froze in place.

“No use running, woman,” he smirked, then opened his mouth wide, much wider than any human could possibly open.

A deafening roar echoed in the dark night. Her pupil’s earlier words flooded her panic-stricken mind –
the enemy is closer than you think
. It was the last thing Mother thought before the blaze of hell engulfed her.