Tempter (17 page)

“What exactly
is
this Tempter?” Tee asked. “You make him sound like some sort of demon...”

“There is no word to truly explain what Tempter is,” Aggie sighed. “A long, long time ago, he was a mortal man, like any other. He was once Donatien Legendre, the grandson of the murderin’ Narcisse...and my biological father. That makes him part of you as well, my little one. The madness in his blood drew him to study sorcery and the black arts. That is how he ended up with the
Aegrisomnia
. The powers Legendre embraced are very, very old and very, very dark.”

“He’s a
bokor
?”

“Nothin’ as simple as a black magician, I’m afraid,” Aggie frowned. “His magic is not that of
voudou
, or even
oresha
. I do not even know if it
has
a name. What I do
know is that by observin’ certain cannibalistic rituals described within the book, Legendre surrendered his soul in exchange for occult power. In doin’ so, he was reborn as the livin’ demon known to the Cajuns as the Tempter of Redeemer Parish.

“The gods, if gods they are, mentioned in the
Aegrisomnia
are so ancient, I suspect they were never worshipped by mankind. The older the magic, the greater it’s power. The Seven are very old, very primal spirits, but Legendre’s master, He-Who-Casts-Shadows, is older still. That is why Jazrel’s magic could only bind him, not destroy him.

“At first Mama hoped he would starve to death inside Seraphine, but the ritual that turned Donatien Legendre into Tempter also granted him a kind of immortality. The best she could do was keep his mortal form locked within that hated house and make sure his spirit-self could not wander at will. But she knew that, in time, her spells would eventually fade, and that only one of her blood could renew the protective charms bindin’ the monster to his livin’ tomb. That is why she cursed me with long life—to make sure there would always be one of Jubal’s line to protect the world from Tempter.

“In this modern age of computers and space travel, there is no power strong enough to keep his like in check, save that of
voudou
, an ancient religion in a new world. And it has been my duty—and my curse—to make sure that the demon-wizard who sired me remains trapped. I have worked hard all my life to keep my father sealed away. But I as I have grown older, my magics have begun to falter. Now Tempter has succeeded in reachin’ out and turnin’ a human to his will. And if he has indeed reclaimed the
Aegrisomnia...
” She trailed off, staring into the distance.

“What do you think will happen if he escapes Seraphine?”

“The skies will rain fire and the seas will turn to wormwood,” Aggie replied grimly.

Tee swallowed hard and protectively laced her hands over her stomach. “We can’t let that happen, Granny.”

Aggie smiled and touched her smooth, young cheek with a bony hand. “It does my heart proud to hear you say that, honey.” She once more reached inside the wooden box, this time removing a snub-nosed .357 Magnum. “We’ll need this, as well--Just in case the rattle doesn’t work.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

It had been a long time since Tempter had called himself Donatien Legendre. He had rid himself of that other, distant identity over a century ago, when he stood smeared in the blood of slaughtered children and received the dark benediction of He-Who-Casts-Shadows.

During that ritual he was asked to name his self anew, so he claimed the name the frightened locals had given to the “evil spirit” that haunted the surrounding swamps and lured their children from the safety of their families, never to be seen again:
Tempter.

The enchantments that kept him prisoner within Seraphine’s walls were weakening; the fact he was able to move about within the house was proof enough of that. However, the spells were still potent enough to keep him from physically crossing the threshold into the outside world. If he wished to walk free amongst the sons of Adam, he would have to find a way to negate Jazrel’s accursed jungle magic once and for all.

There was nothing the supernatural world could throw at him that he couldn’t twist to fit his own ends. Indeed, he had been doing it all his life. He had learned early on about the Legendre family legend about the old witch doctor’s curse and found it a divine, all-purpose excuse for his bad behavior, as his idiot father firmly believed his son was Legendre destined to destroy Seraphine. When his parents sent him abroad to be educated, they unwittingly placed him in the company of pederasts, libertines and other debauchees, who often played at diabolism, arranging elaborate black Sabbaths for their evening’s amusement.

Years later, upon fleeing to Paris to avoid murder charges, he had sought out some of these old friends. Most were dead, either by the guillotine or from their own vices. However, one of his former comrades had pursued his youthful interests and become a sorcerer of some power, actually keeping a pet demon on a silver chain. It was this man who first introduced Donatien to the
Aegrisomnia
. But as powerful as the French wizard might have been, even he found its secrets disturbing. In the end, he was more than happy to get rid of the book...for a price.

Still, it had taken him several years of hard study in order to crack the secret codes within the
Aegrisomnia
. In order to summon forth He-Who-Casts-Shadows he had to avoid sunlight for twelve months, feast only on the flesh and blood of humans--the more blameless the better--and show his devotion to his master by destroying innocence and embracing decay. The ignorant Cajun brats and the children of freed slaves proved easy enough prey. He found their bleats amusing during the ritual defilements. After the incantations were chanted and the proper candles burned, the salts cast, and the signs observed, he would then feast on the goat with no horns. The memory of their suffering flesh still had the power to arouse him.

Rossiter would be back soon. Transforming the musician from horse into a puppet had been an inspired decision. Rossiter’s anger and frustration, along with his penchant for violence and selfishness, made him an excellent horse. Horses, however, have been known to throw their riders, while puppets are far easier to manipulate.

A car door slammed outside and a few moments later Rossiter entered the room, a female body slung over his shoulder. Tempter rose, dusting the grime from his knees. “You have everything?” He tried not to sound too eager.

“Pretty much.” Rossiter dumped Charlie’s body onto the bare boards of the dining room floor as he handed Tempter a burlap sack. “You really need chalk, candles and a coil of rope to get things done?”

“They’re indispensable.” Tempter pointed to the woman sprawled at his feet. “What about her? Did you bring a gag?”

“I got something better.” Rossiter grinned.

Tempter carefully pulled a six-inch stretch of silver duct tape from the roll Rossiter handed him, studying it as if it was made of precious stones. “I think I’m going to like this century,” he smiled.

The first thought that came to Charlie’s mind was pain. Her second thought was of Pluto, which made her start to cry. Something rough and dry flickered across her cheeks, catching the tears trickling down her face. It felt like a cat’s tongue.

Maybe Pluto wasn’t dead, Charlie told herself. Maybe everything that happened was nothing more than a very bad dream. She opened her eyes, expecting to see Pluto perched on the bed beside her, waiting for her to get up and fix him breakfast. Instead, there was a man with pale, leathery skin as white as an albino alligator’s crouched beside her, drinking her tears like a cat lapping up milk. His tongue was as pointed and dry as the rasp on a file. Charlie opened her mouth to scream, but before she could, the strange man slapped his hand across her lips, sealing them shut with a strip of duct tape.

“Please, my dear,” the strange man said, speaking with a pronounced Creole accent. “This is such a special occasion. Let us not spoil it with screams.” His eyes were the color of red wine, and when he smiled he showed pointed teeth that glistened like polished ivory. He smoothed the hair from her face with hands that had long, bird-like fingernails. “Don’t you recognize me, Eugenie? No? Well, it
has
been a long time since we last saw one another—and both of us have changed a great deal.” He cocked his head to one side, studying her like a farmer inspecting prize livestock. “I must say, you certainly got the luck of the draw this time! If you had been this pretty in your last incarnation, things might have been different in our marriage.”

Charlie didn’t know what the hell the weirdo was talking about, and she didn’t
want
to know, either. She tried to pull away from his dry, moth-wing caresses, but was unable to move. As her sense returned, she realized she was pinned to the floor, naked and spread-eagled, like a butterfly on a mounting board, her wrists and ankles bound with the same thick, sticky duct tape used to seal her mouth.

“When I saw you through Rossiter’s eyes, I instantly recognized your mousy, lovelorn soul, despite the appealing new wrapper,” the weirdo said as he gripped her chin roughly in his hand, the tips of his talons drawing tiny beads of blood. “You’ve been looking for me in the shadows of your lovers all your life, haven’t you? I could see it in your eyes each time you cleaved to that self-pitying fool. You
want
to be punished for enjoying the pleasures of the flesh, don’t you? You were always
so
predictable, Eugenie, even in your perversions. That is why you bored me so.”

Charlie’s eyes widened Eugenie Legendre unfurled from deep within the secret hiding place deep within her soul. Eugenie’s thoughts and memories mixed with Charlie’s, like ink in a water glass, until the two were indistinguishable from one another.

“Ah, I see the light of recognition dawning in those borrowed eyes. Welcome back to the land of the living, sweet Eugenie. Surely a wife knows her husband when she sees him, no matter how long she has been dead?” Tempter said as he traced arcane symbols along her exposed belly and thighs with the razor-sharp tips of his fingernails, the blood slowly rising to fill the delicately inscribed wounds. “I remember how you grieved when you lost the baby. You always wanted a child. So did that idiot father of mine. Perhaps he thought he could divert the old witch doctor’s curse? Do you remember that uppity little nigger maid of yours? Of
course
you do. You were the closest of friends, were you not?” His lips pulled into a sneer. “Did you sample the bucks as well, or were you content to pleasure yourself with your pet bitch? The whore locked me inside this house with her accursed jungle magic, you know. Others may waltz in and out of Seraphine as they see fit, but my flesh is doomed to remain here for eternity. Now, I ask you, dearest, is that
fair?
This is why I have chosen you—or, rather, this current incarnation of you—to help me escape the trap your pet nigger constructed. I intend to break her spell with the help of this book—and your life, my lovely.”

Just then Rossiter entered the room, his manner agitated. “Master, there is a car approaching!”

“Deal with it,” he growled in reply. “But be careful. I smell voodoo in the air.”

Charlie followed Rossiter with her eyes, silently pleading with him as he left the room. This seemed to amuse her tormentor, who broke into a cruel chuckle.

“It is clear that you fancy, even after all that has transpired tonight, that your lover will come to his senses and rescue you from your fate. You are deluded in this life as you were in your last.” His fingernails drifted to Charlie’s’
mons veneris
. “Now, my dear, shall we begin?”

Jerry’s hatchback wallowed like a walrus along the rutted dirt road. The headlights jounced violently, permitting off-kilter flash-shots of his surroundings: a startled owl perched on a sagging tree limb; a beady-eyed raccoon leaping for safety into the brush; a weather-beaten
No Trespassing
sign tacked to a rotten gatepost. Suddenly the rear end of a parked car appeared out of nowhere before him, forcing him to swerve at the last minute to avoid plowing into it. Once he got his racing back under control, he recognized the vehicle as Charlie’s BMW.

Jerry got out of his car and stared at the malignant hulk of the abandoned plantation house before him. He had glimpsed a couple of old steel engravings in the Seraphine File of the estate at its prime, and the change suffered over the years by the mansion and the surrounding grounds were indeed shocking. Before the Civil War, it had been a jewel in the crown of the Antebellum South, but now it was just a ruined pile of brick, wood and crumbling plaster. Still, even in an advanced of decay, it remained an impressive edifice, with more than twenty rooms divided amongst its two wings and three stories.

Jerry retrieved the tire tool from the back of his car and eyed the dark structure looming before him. He doubted something so mundane would do much good against the likes of Legendre, or whatever it was Legendre had become, but its weight in his hand was reassuring. No doubt Neanderthal Man felt the same cold comfort when he went into the saber-tooth tiger’s den with nothing but a hefty tree branch for protection.

Rossiter crouched in the gathered dust of the second floor landing, watching through the slats in the banister as Jerry Sloan crossed the threshold of Seraphine and entered its foyer. Jerry’s pathetic attempt at rescue sparked contempt in Rossiter’s cold heart, and he had to bite his lower lip to keep from giggling out loud as he watched his former school friend groping his way through the darkness, clutching a lug wrench like a crucifix.

Now that he thought about it, Rossiter had always considered Jerry Sloan a jerk. Even as a kid he was too wrapped up in his neurotic insecurities to grab life by the balls. His weakness reminded Rossiter of his own failings, and he began to hate Jerry the way he hated the mirror in his bathroom. He wanted to destroy the offending image; smash it until it was incapable of further insult. He picked up a piece of fallen plaster off the floor and lobbed it down the stairs. Jerry’s head swiveled in the direction of the noise.

“Charlie?”
he whispered.

Rossiter chucked a second piece in the same direction as the first. This time Jerry saw it land. He turned around to stare up at the gloom at the top of the stairs.

“Charlie? Is that you up there?”

Rossiter’s smile was so wide the corners of his mouth were parallel with the lobes of his ears. He licked his lips with a cat-rough tongue, as drool spilled onto his chin. He could already taste Jerry’s brains in his mouth.

Jerry had never been so frightened in all his life. His hair was standing on end, every follicle at full attention as he made his way up the staircase. He squinted at the shadows gathered on the second floor landing; he thought he had detected movement, but wasn’t sure if his eyes were simply playing tricks on him.

“Who’s there?”
he whispered, trying to keep his teeth from chattering as he spoke.

There was a thumping sound, as if someone had rolled a ripe cantaloupe from the top riser, followed by something sodden coming to rest at his feet. Jerry clawed at his jacket pocket and pulled out the small penlight attached to his key-ring, illuminating a human head lying on the stair between his right shoe and the wall.

The top of the skull had been pared away in order to extract the brain. One of the eyes was missing, the capped teeth were smashed in, and what flesh remained was crawling with bugs. Still, despite the horrible disfigurements, there was enough of a face left for Jerry to recognize the head as having once belonged to Charlie’s latest ex-boyfriend, Tony Scramuzza. Bile shot up his throat, scalding his tonsils. He instinctively leaned against the banister to avoid contact with the soft, wriggling things turning Tony’s empty head into a nursery.

Suddenly something hissed like a snake and leapt at him from the dark at the top of the stairs. There was barely enough time for Jerry to raise the tire iron in defense before Rossiter struck him. The banister, weakened by a century of rot, snapped in two and spilled both attacker and prey onto foyer’s parquet floor twelve feet below.

Jerry’s body was in so much pain it could not fit through his mouth. Even though he could not voice his agony, he could somehow hear it. It sounded like an enraged wildcat with its paw caught in a trap. Then he realized that it wasn’t
his
pain he was hearing: it was Rossiter’s.

The musician had landed directly on top of him, the force of the impact driving the tire-jack Jerry was holding through Rossiter’s sternum. Jerry grimaced and tired to drag himself free, but his right leg refused to move. Rossiter rolled off of him, spasming like a landed trout. His eyes bulged from their sockets and thick, foul-smelling goo bubbled from his mouth and nose. He grabbed the jack-hilt jutting from his chest and tried to pull it out. Too entranced by his attacker’s pain to feel his own, Jerry watched in horrified silence as Rossiter finally wrenched the length of metal free. His childhood friend stared accusingly at him, his mouth working in wordless recrimination, before coughing up a clot of blood and collapsing onto the floor.