Ghost Key (30 page)

The truck’s brakes screeched, and Maddie dived to the right and struck the ground so hard that her breath rushed out of her. Stunned, she struggled to push up, but her arms felt weak, insubstantial. She tried to roll over, but her body wasn’t listening. It was as if all the months of imprisonment within her own body had short-circuited her brain so that it no longer listened to
her,
to what
she
wanted. It was as if her brain waited for an order from Dominica.

Get up, run fast, flee …

Her body twitched and jerked, as though it couldn’t understand her command. She raised her head, but it immediately plopped to the ground again. She started drooling, tears ran from her eyes, she tried to scream. Nothing worked. Maddie’s fingers dug into the grass, down into the dirt, and she pushed upward with every bit of strength that remained in her body and managed to roll onto her back.

Her body shuddered and shook and she fell back against the ground, teeth chattering. Her arms jerked upward and wrapped around her body like wings. She suddenly went still, squeezed her eyes shut and thought,
Please. Listen to me. You’re my brain, my body, my nervous system. I am now going to get up and run like hell. I’m in control of this body. Me, Maddie Livingston.

Then even her mind went still. Something shifted inside her skull, muscles twitched, jerked, tightened. She sensed her nerves realigning themselves. And then, suddenly, she could move.

Fourteen

Insurrection looked to be imminent. Dominica stood there in Sam Dorset’s body, Liam darting around her, raging, shrieking, a hundred or more
brujos
shouting at her, at each other, some of them already fighting. And for some reason, the words of Walt Whitman, which she’d read only today on her favorite blog, Gypsy Woman World, came to her: “Whatever satisfies the soul is truth.” She knew her own truth. And it told her to stay with Sam a few moments longer, that he was her mouthpiece for information and news, the voice of journalism, and when he was host to someone other than Liam, he did this job well.

Whit hurried over to her, took her hand, Sam’s hand, his host’s face so pale that he looked as though he were already a ghost. “I’ll take him, Nica,” Whit whispered. “I can’t survive much longer in the mayor’s body. His essence is dead.”

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. In the old days, in the ancient days, a
brujo
could seize a host and keep that body even if its essence died. “Do it,” she said. “Seize him and I’ll chase down Maddie.”

“You’ll have to put the mayor’s body on ice somewhere so we don’t have another rotting corpse on our hands. In fact, we’re going to have to bring in the dead and put all of them on ice.”

“No problem. Just do it, Whit. Then control this crowd.”

As Whit leaped out of the mayor’s body and into Sam, the mayor’s body simply crumpled to the floor. For moments, Sam’s body accommodated both Dominica and Whit, and nothing worked right. His arms moved in different directions, and his legs refused to move at all. Then Dominica shot toward the ceiling of the market and out through the door, seeking Maddie, that little escapee bitch.

The first thing she saw was a truck idling at the bottom of the shallow hill in front of her, with a young couple tied up in the back of it, surrounded by hungry ghosts. The driver leaped out and ran toward a patch of grass where Maddie, dazed and confused, struggled to stand. Dominica dived into Maddie’s skull with the ease of a scalpel through flesh.

“Shame, shame,” Dominica cooed. “Honestly, Maddie. Give it up. You’ll never escape.”

Silence.

“Suit yourself.”

Dominica quickly checked to make sure Maddie wasn’t injured, then hauled her to her feet, slapped away the dust and bits of grass on her jeans, and turned to face the driver of the truck, Luz, still hosting one of the women from the Coast Guard. “What have we got here?” she asked.

“Are you all right, Dominica?” Luz asked anxiously.

“I’m fine, Luz. Two hostages? How magnificent. From where?”

“From Zee Small’s camp.”

Perfect
. This fine young
bruja
had delivered Dominica from the rage within her tribe. She could use these hostages to prevent an insurrection. “Take them to the hotel. The tribe is going to vote on their fate.”

“Fantastic,” Luz gushed, obviously relieved that she hadn’t injured Dominica’s host and thrilled at the prospect that her hostages would bring her fifteen minutes of fame.

By then, Whit had led the crowd outside to see what was going on. “We have hostages,” Dominica announced. “They’re being taken to the hotel courtyard and everyone will vote on what we should do with them.” Then, in a softer voice, she asked, “Where’s Liam?”

“I don’t know. I lost track of him in the chaos.”

“If he’s seen again, he’s to be annihilated.” She made sure these words were transmitted through the
brujo
net, and within moments, the net shuddered in response. “Liam has gone rogue.”

“We have an opportunity here,” Whit said, touching her arm. “Let’s take advantage of it.” With that, Whit, firmly ensconced in Sam Dorset’s body, punched the air with his raised fist and screamed,
“Hang them!”

“Hang them, hang them, hang them,”
the crowd chanted.

As the truck moved slowly forward, the crowd trotted along behind it, and their chant grew louder, more frenzied, rising and falling in the dark, chilly air. When the power within the collective madness of a crowd was harnessed, it could topple regimes, governments, countries. But the power within
this
crowd had surpassed her ability to harness or direct it. This power swept out through the darkness, a sentient, enraged being, an agent of profound change. It stoked passions too long buried, cut away at the oppressions and inhibitions her tribe had suffered when they were alive. Most importantly, these passions had turned away from
her
and focused on an enemy. The hostages. Whit’s instincts were brilliant.

Whit drew up alongside her, his grin wild, exuberant. “I figured I’d give them something else to shout about.”

“Good work. How is Sam’s body?”

“Excellent. Liam didn’t damage it. He actually took good care of it when he wasn’t shitfaced. Excellent food, exercise, positive thoughts … Well, maybe not so many of those.” He threw his head back and laughed, a full, exuberant sound that caused Dominica to smile. “Jesus, I love being physical in such a fine body.”

He grasped her hand and their eyes locked. It thrilled her to see such desire in Whit’s eyes, such blatant lust. “Soon,” she whispered, and kissed the back of his hand.

He slung his arm around her waist, drew her to him, and they stopped there in the middle of the road, the chanting sweeping over them, past them, fueling their passion for each other. His hands slipped over her throat and breasts, her hips and ass, down her thighs. Dominica felt Maddie rising to fight her, gathering strength. Dominica tightened her control over Maddie, grasped the back of Whit’s head and drew his mouth to hers. Warmth, the slippery dance of his tongue against hers, their hearts filled to bursting: She loved the one she was with.

Maddie didn’t fight her. Dominica sensed the young woman was beginning to choose her battles carefully. And this one didn’t seem to be worth the effort.

Whit broke the embrace first and he and Dominica skipped up the street together like little kids chasing fireflies. A pure moment, she thought. Now it would be deeply embedded in her memory—the slant of his head as he laughed, the pressure of his hand against hers, and the powerful chanting filling the very air she breathed.
Hang them, hang them;
a chant that had originated with Whit. She had chosen well.

They hurried to catch up to the edge of the crowd that pursued the truck. He grasped her hand more firmly. “Do you think they’ll vote to hang the hostages?”

“I hope so. But we’ll see. We have to abide by their vote, Whit.”

“I know. It’d be smart to keep them as backup hosts, Nica. But hangings will diffuse a potential insurrection.”

Tonight she had learned how important it was for the tribe to feel they were part of a democracy, that they weren’t existing under a dictatorship. But she also wondered to what degree her ghosts were influenced by the thoughts, needs, and emotions of their hosts. The locals on Cedar Key tended to be self-sufficient people, who knew nothing of
brujos;
the people of Esperanza had been cowed by years of
brujo
assaults and it had made them easier to seize, keep, maintain. Yet, the locals were also laid-back, live-and-let-live, lulled by the constancy of the gulf, by the size and isolation of the island, all of which made them easier to seize and hold on to. A contradiction.

Whit’s shoulders twitched once as he adjusted his control over Sam, then he dropped her hand and moved out ahead of her, chanting with the crowd, his raised fist beating the air. Dominica felt proud that she loved the one she was with.

The truck pulled right through the open courtyard gate and more than a hundred of her tribe poured in behind it. A couple of hundred ghosts in their natural forms also drifted into the courtyard, the newer ghosts as luminous orbs, the older ghosts as bits of discolored smoke. These older ghosts were not the quality of the ancient ones in Esperanza, but they held promise, she thought.

The
brujo
net trembled with anticipation; her tribe wanted theater. Okay, she would give them theater. She forced Maddie through the crowd, to the porch of the old barracks where she felt at home, and climbed onto the railing. More hosts poured into the courtyard from the hotel’s side door and just enough light spilled through the windows to create an eerie shadow quality to all who moved there.

Dominica held up her arms, silencing the crowd. “All right. Let’s find out who these hostages are. Whit and Gogh, please remove their gags and blindfolds.” It was likely that the men who hosted Whit and Gogh already knew who these hostages were; there weren’t many people on the island whom their hosts
didn’t
know. And if the hosts knew, then the
brujos
knew. But they played along for the sake of theater, drama, lights, action.

The two men climbed into the truck and tore away the gags and blindfolds from the hostages. The young man looked terrified, while tears rolled down the woman’s cheeks. “What … what the hell is going on?” the man shouted. “All of you here know me. What’re you doing?”

“What’s your name?” Dominica demanded.

“Ask anyone here. They’ll tell you who I am.”

“He’s Fritz Small, Zee’s son,” Joe said. “And the woman is Diane, his wife.”

“Bean,” sobbed Diane. “How can you be a part of this … this insane
mob
?”

“Bean’s asleep,” said Joe. “I’m in charge. Name’s Joe. And Jill”—he pointed at Marion the librarian—“is my wife.”

“
Was
your wife, till you knocked me off, you asshole.” Jill exploded with laughter.

Fritz blubbered, “Jesus God. It’s true, it’s all true. My old man was right.”

“What was that?” Dominica said, mocking him by holding her hand to her ear. “Your old man was right? About what, Fritz?
Us?
About what’s happening on the island? So tell me, what kind of defense does your father have against us?”

The woman sobbed harder, tears coursed down her cheeks, snot ran from her nose. “We … haven’t done anything to any of you. Please … let us go.”

Dominica felt bad for the woman, for Diane. She looked nice enough. She could easily imagine the two of them having coffee down on Dock Street, gossiping as only women could about the island, the friends they had in common. Dominica couldn’t recall the last time she’d had a close female friend. But the problem with most women was their fickleness, the way they twisted truth to fit some female goddess archetype that had nothing to do with the world she inhabited. Unlike Wayra, she didn’t give a shit about Jung, synchronicity, archetypes, or the collective unconscious. Dominica was interested only in results.

“It’s not up to me,” Dominica replied. “We’re putting it to a vote.” She gazed out over her tribe. “How many would like to keep the hostages as backup hosts?”

Barely a third of the crowd raised their hands.

“A show of hands for all in favor of hanging,” she shouted.

Hands shot up all over the courtyard and the chanting began again
. Hang them, hang them.
The chants of the crowd infused the air with a passion she hadn’t seen since the final battle in Esperanza. Her new tribe demanded blood and blood they would get.

Dominica leaped down from the barracks railing and hurried over to Whit, Gogh, and Jill. “Jill, get us some rope from the supply room,” she said quietly. “Whit and Gogh, bring the truck around under the lamppost. We’ll hang them together.”

Whit’s eyes, as dark and slick as wet leaves, glinted with pleasure. “I think that big oak would do nicely, Nica.”

The oak dominated the right side of the courtyard, its huge, graceful branches curving out into the center, leaves rustling in the chilly breeze. “Perfect.” She turned and raised her arms, conjuring fog.

It crept in beneath the courtyard gate, rolled in over the fence, and wrapped around the trunk of the giant oak, eager, hungry.
Brujos
in their natural form immediately entered it, a fog as lovely as white silk, swaying with a kind of blissful anticipation.

Her
creation.

Under
her
command.

As Whit brought the truck under the branches of the oak, the fog wrapped around its tires and began to rise toward the terrified couple. Diane wept noisily and kept trying to move closer to her husband. Fritz struggled valiantly to free his hands and feet, but only succeeded in losing his balance and toppled into his wife. They both fell to the floor of the truck.

The truck stopped and Whit and Gogh hopped out, climbed into the bed, and hauled the hostages to their feet. Just then, Jill barreled out of the side door of the hotel, waving two lengths of rope, and the crowd cheered and chanted again. The defiance Jill had displayed in the market was now gone, subsumed by the power of the collective. There was yet hope for Jill.