Hounacier (Valducan Book 2) (8 page)

"You cut off that ponytail, I see." She leaned closer. "I like you better without it. Look like a young Martin Sheen. Anyone ever tell you that?"

"Yes ma'am," Malcolm chuckled.

Ice cubes tinkled as Darius stepped back in. He set a tall glass of golden tea on the table, making sure to move a coaster there first.

"Thank you, Darius," Maggie said, withdrawing her hand. "You can go on home now."

"Are you sure?"

Maggie nodded. "Doctor Romero and I have a lot to catch up on. He'll take care of me; don't worry."

The man glanced back at Malcolm and nodded. "A'ight. I'll be back tomorrow."

"Tell your mama hello for me."

"I will. Good to meet you," he said to Malcolm.

"You too."

Maggie waited until Darius had left. "He's a good boy."

Malcolm smiled. The old woman could find the good in anyone. She could also charm the most hardened criminal with just a wink. Grandma magic, Ulises had called it.

"I'm terribly sorry for your loss, Malcolm," she said. "He was a good man."

"Thank you," Malcolm said. For some reason, Maggie's condolences were the only ones that really mattered, not Jim's, Tasha's, even the other Valducans. Grandma magic. "Do you have any idea who could have done that to him?"

She frowned. "I last saw him a few weeks before he died. He was workin' with a man who had been a servant to demons. Ulises was tryin' to pull him back to the light."

"A familiar?"

"I believe so but not just one. He'd served several during his life."

Demon addict,
Malcolm thought. People who had been bound as a familiar were broken human beings. Someone that served more than one would be shattered, desperate to find a new master. "Did you get a name?"

"Marcus. Never heard a last name. They met at that jazz club Ulises liked on Frenchman." Her eyes looked up, searching her memory. "Brass Sax."

It's a start. A demon hunter's head would make a good offering to a potential master.
"Anyone else he'd been seeing?"

Maggie pursed her lips. "I heard he'd been visitin' with Atabei Cross."

"Who?"

"Atabei Cross. She's some root worker down in the Ninth. Leads a little congregation down there, I understand. Met her just once." She sipped her tea. "Pretty thing, little older than you."

"She doesn't pay respects to you?" Malcolm asked.

The Voodoo Queen snorted. "Most of the local priests don't do that. Never have. No, she keeps to herself down there."

"That reminds me," Malcolm said. "I saw Jim Luison before coming here. He was worried people might gossip if they found out I saw him first."

Maggie smiled, revealing a mouth of pearly dentures. "They'll gossip no matter what you do, Boo. If any say anything to me, I'll tell them truth. You were visitin' Natasha. Jim just happened to be there." She met his eye. "Everyone knows about you two."

"That was a long time ago." Malcolm tried his tea. Suddenly realizing how thirsty he was, he gulped it twice more.

"That's your perspective." The old woman winked. "Tasha's grown quite a reputation the last few years. She's one of Erzulie's favorites."

"Must run in the family." Her father was also favored. Instead of the loa of love and beauty, Jim was the preferred vessel of Baron Samedi, the loa of the dead, the darker half of Papa Ghede.

"You've never been mounted, have you?" she asked, eyeing Malcolm over the rim of her glass.

"No, ma'am."

"Hounacier always claimed you. Told them, 'Back off. He's mine.'"

"I guess she did," he chuckled

Maggie motioned to the rectangular case at Malcolm's feet. "Is that her?"

"Yeah."

"Well, bring her out. I haven't seen her in years either."

Malcolm fought the hesitation, not wanting to offend the old priestess. Once, before he was born, Ulises and Maggie had been a bit of an item. Then Hounacier appeared. Malcolm always suspected the queen regarded the holy blade with an air of resentment. The other woman. "Of course." He thumbed open the latch and lifted the lid, revealing the wood-sheathed machete strapped inside beside the shotgun and row of shells.

"There she is," Maggie said. "Bring her closer."

Malcolm tore the Velcro back with a loud
scritch
. Pulling her free, he slid off the polished sheath.

Maggie leaned closer as Malcolm presented the blade before her. She peered over the weapon, like an artist inspecting the work of a master. She nodded as if to herself. "Welcome home." Maggie leaned back in her chair and nursed her tea, her gaze distant, almost regretful.

He set the blade across his lap.

"Let me know when you're ready to move into Ulises' old home," she said, her tone suddenly businesslike. "My boys can help you get things set up."

Malcolm hid his apprehension behind a final sip of tea. "It's not necessary, but thank you. I won't be staying that long."

The queen's brow arched pointedly. "Why not?"

"I have obligations I need to attend. My Order needs me too much."

Maggie drew a patient breath. "Malcolm, Hounacier is part of this city. She belongs with her people. Your only obligation is to her. With Ulises gone, you must take his place."

He shifted under the old woman's gaze. "It's not that simple."

"Yes, Mal, it is. It's time to move home." She nodded to Hounacier. "Ask her. She'll tell you where she needs to be."

#

Following the walk alongside a white concrete wall, Malcolm mulled over the voodoo queen's words. He'd never wanted to upset the old woman, but trying to explain himself was useless. She'd lived in the city her entire life. It was the world to her. Malcolm had seen the world. He knew how big it was. Hoarding Hounacier in just those pockets that practiced her religion was selfish. Too many people needed her.

The wall opened to a black, wrought-iron gate, and Malcolm stepped through into Saint Roch cemetery. Following the necropolis' streets past moss-dusted tombs, he found his way to a large mausoleum. White marble sealed each of the four vaults. Two were so old and weathered, their graven names were but memory. The third denoted Edith Moore, who died in 2003. Ulises Belair's name marked the fourth and newest slab.

Fresh and wilted flowers lay on the ground before it, alongside dozens of coins and colorful trinkets. Several more coins clung to the vault's face, affixed with candle wax. Burned stubs lay scattered about as well. Malcolm ran a finger along a triple-X scratched into the marble. Four more similar marks adorned the façade—one in charcoal, another in blue paint pen. Long ago an over-dramatic tour guide had started the tradition of defacing Marie Laveau's tomb with the same mark as a means of gaining luck. The practice took off, and the lines between fantasy and religion blurred and melted as more people subscribed to the ritual. Belief made the magic real, and now, it seemed the city was canonizing Ulises as one of the voodoo kings to be paid tribute. Malcolm snorted, wondering if the old sorcerer would have ever imagined it.

He pressed his hand against the smooth stone. A moment of pain as the tattoo-lid opened. Malcolm closed his eyes, hoping, praying to feel his old friend inside.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. "I should have called…visited more. I should have been here." Guilt coiled and balled in stomach. It was too late for apologies. "You used to scare the shit out of me, you know?" He chuckled. "You were so damned intimidating. So serious. Then…then you became my fucking dad." Malcolm cleared his throat, fighting back tears. "I never told you that. I never knew my own father, and then once I had one, I fucking neglected him. I'm sorry. I'm sorry we fought so much. I…I'm going to find who did this to you."

The tattooed eye stretched wider until it felt as if the skin might rip. "I love you…father."

The tattoo faintly throbbed. Love. Malcolm couldn't tell if it was real or imagined, but accepted it nonetheless.

Malcolm closed his hand and wiped his eyes. Glancing around to be sure he was alone, he opened his case and removed the machete. Reverently, he slid Hounacier from her sheath and pressed her against the old man's tomb. "We'll make this right." Malcolm drew a breath. Held it. "I promise."

After a few silent moments, he returned Hounacier to her case and snapped it shut. Next time he visited, he'd mark his own XXX with the blood of Ulises' murderer.

Trapped in thought, he stepped out of the cemetery yard.

"Welcome home, Milky."

Malcolm spun.

A disheveled white man with irregular dreadlocks squatted against the cemetery wall. His eyes were rolled back like veined, white orbs. He grinned at Hounacier's case. "And to you too, beautiful lady. Welcome back." The man shuddered then blinked. He looked around then, suddenly noticing Malcolm standing right in front of him, eyes wide.

The man smiled sleepily. "Hey man," the Creole accent now replaced with a southern drawl. "Those are nice shoes you got."

"That so?" Malcolm asked.

"I bet I could tell you the street you got those shoes on."

"I bet you could." Malcolm handed the guy a five.

"Wow," the guy said, accepting the money. "Thanks."

Malcolm turned and continued on. The loa knew he was back. It was time to get to work.

Chapter Five

Malcolm sipped tea from a porcelain cup decorated with roses and skulls. Dull pain buzzed along his arm as AJ inked his newest tattoo out with quick jabs. He winced, her needles hitting the still-tender machete cut.

"I told you," she said, not looking up. "You should let that heal first."

"Just do it." Malcolm pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth as the artist worked.

Jim hadn't heard of Marcus, the demon-addict that Ulises had been seeing. Last night, Malcolm had gone to the Brass Sax, hoping to find him. He didn't. But one of the regulars, a redhead named Liz, knew him. After a few Vodka Sours, she revealed that Marcus was a stocky man with kinky hair. She didn't know his last name but said he showed up every Saturday night. Tomorrow.

AJ dabbed away the blood and ink with a wet paper towel. "That's two."

Malcolm checked the pair of tapered golden lines stretching across his forearm like claw marks. Hounacier's cut connected the bottom tip of the left line to the top of where the third one would soon be. He opened and closed his fist, watching the marks ripple. "Lookin' good."

"Thanks," AJ said. "You sure you have to run now? I can finish the last one in just a few minutes."

"Sorry. Got an appointment."

AJ shook her head, her bone-plugged earlobes wobbling. "Suit yourself." She dropped the needle-tipped sticks into a metal tray. "You know the drill, Mal. No direct sun. No swimming. Keep the bandage on."

He drew a breath as she smeared a cold film of antibiotic gel onto his am. "Tomorrow then?"

"Three o' clock." She wrapped the fresh tattoo before finally peeling off her latex gloves.

Apologizing for the reschedule, Malcolm tipped her a few extra bucks and left the shop. Finishing Hounacier's tattoo was important, but so was his next appointment. Leather case in hand, he hurried six blocks to Puffy's. The painted image of a fat-cheeked man grinning around a cigar decorated the restaurant's plate-glass window.

He checked his watch. 10:46.

"Just one?" asked a young waiter with a bright red shirt and sculpted black hair.

"Two."

The man nodded. "Sit wherever you like. I'll bring your menus."

The restaurant consisted of small, semi-separate rooms. He remembered when it had been an insurance office a decade before. Malcolm found a little corner table that gave him a good view of the front, ordered a sandwich, and waited.

Fifteen minutes later, a thin, black policeman stepped inside. Seeing Malcolm, he approached the table.

Malcolm stood, offering a hand. "Corporal Duplessis?"

He shook his hand. "Doctor Romero?"

"It's good to meet you," Malcolm said, taking his seat. "Jim Luison speaks very highly of you."

The officer nodded and slid into the opposite chair. "Call me Louis." He glanced over his shoulder. "Jim told me about your…problem."

Malcolm nodded. "I've hit a dead-end not being related to Ulises Belair. Jim said you could help me with that."

Duplessis' lips tightened. He ran a hand along the back of his shiny bald head.

"I understand this is a big risk," Malcolm said, his voice low.

The policeman nodded. He opened his mouth, but Malcolm held up a silencing finger.

"I see your guest has arrived," the waiter said. He set an amber, plastic water glass down before Duplessis. "Are you ready to order?"

"Yeah." Duplessis picked up the laminated menu, barely looking at it. "Um…roast beef po' boy. To go."

"Anything else?" the waiter asked, not writing the order.

"That's it."

"All right. I'll get that right out."

Malcolm waited until the waiter left before nodding the officer to continue.

Duplessis reached into his pocket and set a bright green flash drive on the table.

Malcolm palmed it. "Thank you."

The policeman nodded. "Not much on there. Think the cut was a machete. Common in these kind of killings."

These kind?
Malcolm ran a finger across the table's edge. "Any suspects?"

"Several prints. But he had a lot of people that visited. With records. Detectives are still interviewing them all." He swallowed. "It's all in there."

"Thanks again." Malcolm folded a pair of hundreds beneath a paper napkin and slid them across the table.

Duplessis pushed them back. "That's all right."

He eyed the napkin. "Are you sure?"

"Not money."

Malcolm hid his trepidation behind a bite of his sandwich. "What then?"

The officer leaned closer. "My wife. She's up for a promotion at her bank, but there's another guy the manager likes. He's probably going to get it instead."

"I'm listening."

His dark eyes traced up Malcolm's arms. "I was thinkin' you could help her out."

"How?"

"A gris-gris."

Bitter relief washed up Malcolm's spine. For a moment, he'd thought the policeman was requesting a hit. "That's possible."

A little smile twitched at the edges of Duplessis' mouth.

"I'll need her name, of course, and a picture. Help me focus." He sipped his water. "And something of hers. Personal effect."

"Her name's Rochelle." He pulled a battered black wallet from a back pocket. Flipping it open, he wrestled out a little photograph then hesitated.

"I just need it to focus," Malcolm assured. "You'll get it back when I deliver her gris-gris."

"How long will it take?"

"Three, maybe four days."

Duplessis' brow creased. "That long?"

"I'd prefer a week, but you look like you need it now. Look, I owe you. I owe you a lot. This is going to be real hoodoo, not some knock-off shit from a tourist trap. It takes time."

Reluctance faded from the officer's face. Drawing a breath, he handed Malcolm the picture. From a shirt pocket, he removed a tightly rolled plastic bag and offered it over.

Malcolm unrolled it to see a ball of black hair inside, likely pulled from a comb. "Don't worry. I learned from the best."

#

Lunchtime tourists wandered the French Quarter's dingy streets, snapping pictures and watching performers. Lost in thought, Malcolm followed the sidewalk past shop fronts, their painted stucco façades artfully decayed, revealing the old brickwork beneath. There were two methods to making Rochelle Duplessis' gris-gris. This first was a simple blessing, granting luck toward her career. It gave her an edge. The second was more sinister: a curse on her rival. That was more effective, but Malcolm preferred not to take the darker path.

He came to a sea-green shop. Multi-colored curtains hung in the window, framing a display of various candles and tiny cloth pouches. A wooden sign hung above the door, depicting a coiled, rainbow-colored serpent around the name, "Crossroads Voodoo Boutique." He stopped, allowing a bearded man clouded in patchouli and clutching a black paper bag to step outside.

A tiny bell jingled as he closed the door behind him. Wooden masks ran along the tops of the light-colored walls. Below them, assorted candles and pouches, encased in crinkly plastic, rested atop cloth-draped cases. An enormous shrine dominated one corner, cluttered with offerings. A blue ribbon of spicy incense twisted and curled out from a clay holder.

A thin white woman with a steel-gray bob leaned behind the counter. Her ring-encrusted hands waved before her as she spoke with a clean-cut black man in a cream suit with no tie.

"Well," the woman said, her face brightening, "Doctor Romero, I presume."

"Paula." He offered a hand to the suited man. "Mister Warren."

"Good to see you, Mal," Earl Warren said with a firm shake. "It's been a long time."

"Too long," Paula said, walking around the counter. Her long, flowing clothes did little to disguise the fact that she was built like a stick insect. She gave Malcolm a hug, the top of her head only coming to his chin. "Good to see you."

"Good to be seen."

"Maggie had said you were in town." Earl's gaze lowered to Malcolm's case. "Nasty business with Ulises. I hope they find who could have done that."

"They're working on it," Malcolm said.

"And you're here to pay your respects?" Earl asked. "Maggie said you don't intend to stay."

"I'll be here until justice is done for Ulises."

"Ah," Earl said. "Be careful what you do, Malcolm. Things could cause problems for our community if you interfere with police business."

Malcolm's eyes narrowed. "Worse than someone killing an old man in his home and cutting his head off?" Earl never approved of Ulises. His congregation met in a church, resembling, in most respects, any other. The voodoo priest was a businessman. Real-estate. Image was everything to him.

"That was a tragedy," the priest said. "Senseless. But blood should never beget blood. I can only hope you understand that. Ulises never did."

"Ulises understood the world in ways you couldn't," Malcolm said, his anger rising. "He didn't hide from it."

Earl's jaw tightened, the muscles undulating. "If you think I'm going to sit back and let you set our religion back a hundred years, you're mistaken. Best keep Ulises' dusty old sword in that case of yours."

Malcolm met his eyes. "Or what?"

"Gentlemen," Paula snapped. "Now, this is my shop. If you two want to fight, then get out. Measure your dicks somewhere else."

"You're right," Malcolm said, backing down. "I'm sorry, Paula."

Earl sighed and raised a hand. "Apologies." He gave Malcolm a plastic smile. "We can discuss this at a more appropriate time."

"Yeah."

"Again, I am very sorry for your loss, Malcolm." He turned to Paula, still glaring at them like a pissed off den mother. "We'll continue our talk later. Take care."

"You too," she said, the anger melting a little. She waited until he left, door tinkling behind him, before she took a breath. "So," she said cheerfully, "how can I help you, Mal?"

"I need some supplies," he said. "I'm making a gris-gris."

A question ticked in the mambo's eye. Apprehension.

Pretending not to notice, he scanned the glass herb jars nestled in a corner rack. "A friend's wife is up for a promotion at her job. I wanted to give her something that could help."

"Ah, career," she purred, nervousness gone. Paula glided over to the jars, her long fingers moving across their labels. "What does she do?"

"Banking."

"Money, then." she plucked one of the jars. "We can do that. What all will you need to make it?"

Malcolm grunted. He hadn't made a gris-gris in five years. "Everything."

#

An hour and sixty-two dollars later, Malcolm left Crossroads Voodoo Boutique. He'd fit the two bags of ingredients inside Hounacier's case, not realizing how off-balance it would become. The finished gris-gris itself would weigh under two ounces. Unfortunately, all the materials to make it weighed a couple pounds.

Hip-hop blared out from an enormous wheeled speaker as a team of dancers in matching jogging suits worked a pack of tourists. Shoulder to shoulder, the audience clogged the sidewalk, watching the performance though their cameras and phone screens. It was a pickpocket's dream. Paying attention to his surroundings, Malcolm scooted though the sweat-stinking crowd.

A man in a grungy, yellow bucket hat glanced at Malcolm's tattoos and quickly stepped out of the way. "Excuse me, sir," he mumbled.

Malcolm nodded as he passed. The sudden and almost fearful respect from the local hustlers felt strange. His life as a demon-hunter had been spent either in Ulises' shadow or as under the radar as possible. Anonymity was slipping. What troubled him more was that part of him enjoyed the attention.

Emerging from the crowd, Malcolm noticed a piecemeal bicycle chained to one of the cast-iron hitching posts. A yellowed raccoon skull rested just behind the seat rack, affixed with rusty wire. The skull was a ward, a totem to keep evil spirits from following the rider. Malcolm wondered where it was the owner went that evil might follow them home. He'd seen the type of ward before in Haiti and Jamaica but never stateside. Malcolm glanced around, wondering if maybe the owner was watching him. No one was. Disappointed, he continued on.

Maybe before he left, he'd have a chance to meet this cyclist. Maybe glean a bit of insight on the custom's migration.

Four blocks later, he arrived at Alpuente's Antiques. The scarab tattoo itched as he stepped inside. Malcolm quickly moved past the ghoul mask's uncomfortable gaze.

Mister Alpuente stood behind the counter, talking to a fat man in a hideous Hawaiian shirt. A pair of silver coins rested on a black, velvet mat between them. The old man glanced over. "Tasha's in the back if you want to go give her a hand."

"All right," Malcolm said. "Thanks." He made his way past the ornate furniture toward the dark, double doors in the back of the shop. Something banged, followed by a metallic clatter.

"Damn it," Tasha cursed as Malcolm entered the hall. Four claw-footed chairs rested outside an open door.