Black Heart Loa (43 page)

Kallie clung to Layne in exhaustion, her arms laced around his neck, as he sat in the room’s only chair with her astride him, the thrust of his hips an urgent and steady beat. He kissed her, one hand cupped against her face.

Layne’s final chakra had irised open some time ago in a breath-stealing explosion of ecstasy, but Kallie’s remained stubbornly closed. And she was terrified they wouldn’t be able to coax it open in time.

She’d lost count of the number of orgasms that had swept her body—each more intense than the last. But even though her body practically vibrated with electric pleasure, quivering at Layne’s every touch, the taste of his lips, the feel of him inside her, her weary mind kept slipping into a near dream state—no, make that a near
nightmare
state—every time she was about to scale that last peak.

Like now. Pleasure looped around her, drew tight, then unraveled as her treacherous and dreaming-while-awake mind splashed an ugly image across the darkness behind her eyes.

Mama pulls the gun’s trigger and the side of Papa’s head explodes in a spray of blood and bone. He slumps down in his chair, a bottle of Abita still in his hand, his purple eyes wide and blank.

Kallie stands in her bedroom doorway, frozen. Mama turns and faces her, aims the gun carefully between her shaking hands. Her hands shake, but her face is still, resigned.

“I can’t,” Kallie mumbled in frustration against Layne’s lips.

Layne’s rhythm slowed, but he didn’t stop, just eased into a gentle rocking motion. He brushed Kallie’s hair
back from her face. “What’s wrong, Kall? You need me to do something different?”

She shook her head. “It just keeps slipping away from me. Why won’t it open, goddammit? I’m pretty sure we’re almost out of time …”

“You’re exhausted, we both are, and you’re feeling the pressure. We’re almost there, sunshine. Don’t give up on me now.”

“I
ain’t
giving up, goddammit. I’m just”—Kallie’s breath caught as his hands cupped her ass and lifted her up to the tip of his erection, then dropped her down again—“trying to figure out why all of a sudden I can’t …”

“Can’t what?” Layne murmured, easing her up with agonizing slowness. He caught her stiff and swollen nipple with his lips and sucked it into his mouth.

“God,” Kallie whispered. She was caught between his wet mouth and his hard, gliding length—a willing prisoner—as he lifted her up, then down, then up again.

Liquid heat pooled in her belly, ignited like napalm. She moaned.

But darkness seeped in at the edges of Kallie’s vision like floodwater under a door, and another memory unscrolled through her mind.

Gage lies on his belly in her bed, his face turned to the side. Blood masks his fine features, glitters in his black curls. All color has drained from his espresso-brown skin. His empty, unblinking eyes tell her that he is dead.

Kallie forced the image away, but it was too late—the memory demolished her slow-building pleasure like a wrecking ball. She stiffened in Layne’s embrace. Buried her face against his shoulder. Desperation burned through her. “Dammit.”

“You need to tell me what’s going on, Kallie,” Layne said quietly.

“Memories,” she replied, throat tight. “Of my father, of Gage … it’s like I’m dreaming with my eyes open. I can’t seem to control it.”

“Too tired or too haunted,” Layne said. His fingers traced heated trails along her back, her hips. Kallie shivered. “I know about haunted. And I know what to do. Hold on, beautiful. When I stand up, wrap those legs around me.”

Layne rose from the chair, still inside of her, and lowered Kallie to the floor in one fluid move. He moved up along her body, his dreads snaking along over her belly, her breasts, teasing her nipples, then he flipped her legs over his shoulders and drove in deep. Kallie arched her back and gasped.

“The best way to forget about being haunted”—Layne’s hands found hers and pinned them together above her head—“is to fuck.”

Heated flutters rippled through her belly. “But that’s what we’ve been doing for hours.”

“No it ain’t. We’ve been performing a ritual, exploring, playing. I’m talking about down-and-dirty, no-time-for-thought, primal fucking.”

And before Kallie could say another word, Layne pounded into her with a savage and demanding urgency that blanked her mind of thought, erased all words. Her wrists bound together in his steel grip, she was once again his willing prisoner. Heat shimmered through her belly. She arched up to meet his thrusts, and pleasure shuddered through her in a molten wave.

Moaning, Kallie looked into Layne’s eyes as the orgasm racked her body and suddenly saw a galaxy of tender and
passionate possibilities in the unguarded depths of his green eyes.

Traveling the road with him and his clan, teaching hoodoo to their son …

Staying in Bayou Cyprés Noir, a cottage of their own, his Harley in the yard …

Him traveling, her staying, and the hot, sweaty acrobatic nights whenever he returned …

Layne drove into her, hard and fast, whispering her name as he came, pulsing inside of her. And triggered by his, another orgasm spiraled through her. Kallie gasped, and the last reluctant chakra pinwheeled open inside of her, clearing the way for the energy she and Layne had created with each kiss, each touch, every joining.

The snake of feminine fire looped at the base of Kallie’s spine uncoiled and shot up in a blazing path of energy through her opened chakras to merge with the molten column of Layne’s rising masculine fire.

Something writhed and twisted at Kallie’s core, trying to escape, sank fangs into her heart. She cried out in pain. She felt something dark and oily swirling along her spine, only to disintegrate in the white-hot river of energy rushing through her.

Incandescent light starred out from between her and Layne, spiking into them both with a heated radiance, enveloping them.

Sacred fire swallowed the
cabane.

Outside, thunder rumbled, drowning out the drums, and a voice boomed, “Time be up, Kallie Rivière.”

Belladonna, on her third
shift in the protective circle, and wearing a borrowed yellow rain slicker against the storm,
stared in wonder as brilliant white light shafted out from around the
cabane
’s door seams and from around the edges of the plywood nailed over the windows, illuminating the afternoon’s gloom in thin stripes.

“Hellfire,” she breathed.

A voice rolled in on the thunder. The Baron’s. “Time be up, Kallie Rivière.”

“Not yet it isn’t!” Belladonna cried.

The
cabane
shuddered as though rocked by a small explosion, then the door was blasted off its hinges and the plywood blown from the windows as blinding light shafted from the
cabane
’s interior.

Shielding her eyes with the edge of her hand, Belladonna twisted away from the light. Power pealed through Le Nique like a wedding bell. The smell of brimstone curled thick into the air—spent magic.

Belladonna’s heart gave a little leap. “She did it. I knew she would.”

Over by the stone cottage, wolves lifted their voices in an eerie howl.

A sheet draped around her body, Kallie staggered into the doorway, panic on her face. She looked in the direction of the howling wolves. “Jackson,” she whispered, and stumbled down the steps.

“Shug, wait!” Belladonna chased after her.

T
he wolves ringing the
stone cottage stopped howling and their multitoned, primal song dropped away to be replaced by the wind’s rising voice. Kallie pulled to a stop in front of the cottage, her bare feet sliding in the rain-slick grass.

A cold hand spider-walked up her spine. The heavy stone door stood wide open. Storm-thinned daylight trickled inside. Her heart contracted. Was she too late?

Time be up, Kallie Rivière.

She heard footsteps squelching to a stop beside her. “Hold on, already,” Belladonna said, grabbing hold of Kallie’s arm. “I’m coming with you.”

“Me too.” Layne joined them, clad only in his jeans, earning himself a look of appreciation from Belladonna.

Flashing a grateful smile at both of them, Kallie walked into the cottage. The musky wounded-animal smell had faded underneath the fresh air. Jackson lay curled on the straw-littered floor, eyes closed, his bare skin a pale smudge in the cottage’s shadows.

In human form again. His Change finally complete. But he was so still.

Holding on to her improvised sheet sarong, Kallie
hurried across the straw to her cousin, kneeling beside him. Just as she reached a hand toward him to brush the hair from his face, she became aware that someone besides Ambrose waited in the cottage. She smelled hot peppers and rum.

Kallie swiveled around on her knees, pulse pounding, and looked up into Baron Samedi’s skull-painted face—or rather,
Cash
’s skull-painted face. She realized there was something different about him, something she couldn’t put her finger on. Exhaustion buzzed through her, blurred her thoughts. Only adrenaline kept her more or less upright.

“Jackson’s safe,” she insisted. “I restored things to their proper natures.” Doubt wormed through her. “Didn’t I?”

“Dat you did,
ma jolie,
” the Baron replied, sliding a gloved finger along the brim of his top hat. And Kallie realized that the fedora and Armani suit had been replaced by the Baron’s traditional top hat and tuxedo. “Everyt’ing be where it belongs. Except my
cheval.
”

“And my cousin?”

“You made de deadline, little hoodoo. Barely. So yo’ cousin lives and you get to keep de
loa
—until such time as you find yo’ soul, dat is.”

“Then what happens to the
loa
?” Kallie asked.

The Baron shrugged. “Ain’t none o’ yo’ business, little hoodoo,” he said. “Now, as for dis
cheval,
I t’ink I’ll take him back to where I found him.”

Kallie thought about how well that would go—the Baron depositing Cash like an empty bottle at her aunt’s house. “A better idea would be to take him to his cousin, Kerry. He’s been worried that Cash was changed into a black hen.”

At worst, Kerry would faint at the Baron and Cash’s sudden arrival and the hen would cluck disapprovingly.

“Dat be a fine idea.” The Baron thumped his walking stick against the floor. Then slid it between his legs and waggled it back and forth suggestively. “If not for my beautiful Maman Brigitte …” Grinning, he vanished in a puff of cigar smoke—even though he hadn’t been smoking one.

Kallie sat back on her heels, exhaling in relief.

“I can see there’s never a dull moment around you,” Ambrose drawled, an undertone of amused irritation threaded through his voice.

“Then you haven’t been shopping with her,” Belladonna said. “Girl buys the first thing she sees. Doesn’t try things on. Doesn’t compare. Doesn’t even squeal when she scores a tasty item—like these boots,” she extended her foot. “Knockoffs, sure, but you’d never know it. Trust me. She offers
plenty
of dull moments.”

“Thanks, Bell,” Kallie growled.

“Don’t mention it, Shug.”

Ambrose blinked. “Poor Jackson,” he murmured.

Kallie swung around to face Jackson again. Leaning over, she smoothed his tangled espresso locks back from his face. Although dried blood smeared his lips and one cheek, he looked peaceful.

“When I heard the wolf song,” she said, “I thought that maybe he had …” She let the words trail off, reluctant to say them aloud even now.

“That was a song of celebration,” Ambrose replied. “First Change successfully completed.”

“I was right about his fine ass,” Belladonna murmured approvingly.

“He’s my cousin, Bell. My
cousin.
Quit looking at his ass.”

“She can look,” a soft voice slurred, “as long as I get to look at hers too.”

“Deal,” Belladonna replied.

Kallie looked into Jackson’s sleepy, honey-colored eyes, saw the smile brushing his lips, hinting at wickedness. He reached up and grasped her hand, folded his bloodstained fingers through hers.

“I ain’t had enough yet, short stuff,” he said. “
Merci beaucoup,
Kallie.”

“
Tais-toi.
Just go back to sleep.” Tears stung her eyes. Happy tears, this time. Tears she didn’t bother to blink away. She squeezed his hand.

“Bossy, you,” Jackson said, eyes shuttering closed again.

The click of claws on stone and the jingling of her collar announced Cielo’s arrival. The Siberian husky—no longer the stealth variety—trotted over to Jackson and deposited a freshly killed squirrel near his head. Nudged it toward him with her muzzle.

“Dog, please.” Belladonna’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “You can’t be serious.”

Cielo looked from the squirrel to Jackson, then back to the squirrel.

“Gah,” Belladonna declared.

“Um … good girl, but Daddy’s sleeping,” Kallie said. “He’ll eat later, okay?”

Tongue lolling as if in agreement, Cielo sat and waited.

As Kallie watched Jackson sleep, wondering if she had the energy to climb to her feet, she became aware of an
irregular
thunk-thunk
against the roof—like tree branches pushed by the wind—became aware of drumming rain. Her heart contracted. The hurricane was still on its way.

“Divinity needs to contact the ward hoodoos and make sure the wards are working,” Kallie said, twisting around to look up at Belladonna. “Evelyn’s still on the way. How long till landfall?”

Belladonna opened her mouth, but it was Divinity’s voice that answered as the hoodoo walked into the cottage. “About five hours,
chère.
And I contacted the ward hoodoos the moment I saw yo’ light shafting tru de village. We be hoping it ain’t too late for de wards to slow Evelyn down, steal some of her punch.”

“I think y’all will be riding the storm out here,” Ambrose said.

“True, dat,” Divinity said, joining Kallie. “Boy looks like a mess, but he be alive, t’anks to you and yo’ nomad. And you both look dead on yo’ feet.”