Tempter (8 page)

Chapter Twelve

Tee was laughing at something one of her co-workers said as she exited the restaurant. Her smile disappeared when she saw Rossiter waiting for her. “What the fuck do you want?” she asked tartly.

He stepped forward, his face contrite. “I came to apologize. You were right: I was fooling around with things I had no business messing with.” He showed her the bouquet of long stemmed roses he’d been hiding behind his back. “Can we back up and start over?”

Tee looked at the flowers, then at Rossiter, then smiled and took the bouquet from him, cradling it like a thorny child.

Rossiter lay on his back, Tee curled inside the circle of his arm. She muttered something in her sleep and pressed closer to him. He dimly remembered promising Charlie he would meet her for dinner that evening, but that was nothing compared to keeping Tee’s naked warmth beside him. He yawned and closed his eyes...

And fell into someone else’s life.

In his right hand he held a smoldering cigar, in the left were playing cards. Men dressed like extras from
Gone With The Wind
, only not as clean, surrounded him. The man seated directly opposite him was dressed in a silver brocade vest. Rossiter stared at their muttonchops and waxed mustaches.

Silver Vest scowled at the cards in his hand, a foul-smelling cheroot clamped between yellow, crooked teeth. A woman in a low-cut floor-length dress, her hair adorned with brightly colored ribbons, leaned over Silver Vest’s shoulder. Silver Vest growled something under his breath and shrugged her off. The woman pouted but did not leave his side.

He was aware than the other men at the table were watching him, their cards abandoned

alongside piles of lacquered wooden chips. “Well? What’s it going to be?” Although the words came from his mouth, it was not Rossiter’s voice.

Silver Vest glowered at him. “This hand stinks, Legendre.” There was no mistaking the accusation in his eyes.

“Then you fold,
monsieur
?”

“Did I say anything about folding, coon-ass?”

Rossiter’s spine stiffened, although he was uncertain why he should feel insulted. “I am no more a Cajun,
monsieur
, than you are a nigger!” he replied sharply.

“I don’t give a hoot in a hail storm what you are. All I’m saying is that this hand ain’t worth shit. Just like the last three hands you dealt. Ain’t that right, boys?” Silver Vest looked to his fellow gamblers for support, but none were willing to meet his gaze.

“What is it, exactly, that you are accusing me of,
monsieur
?”

Silver Vest looked like he was about to bite his cheroot in two. “Accuse, hell! I’ll come out and say it to your face, you god-damned cheatin’ coon-ass!”

Rossiter pulled the revolver from his jacket and fired it with ease of a practiced duelist. Silver Vest’s forehead disappeared, splashing brains and blood onto the whore with the ribbons in her hair. The other players at the table quickly fled the scene, leaving only Rossiter, the whore, and what was left of Silver Vest in the salon.

He got to his feet and walked around the table to where the body lay sprawled on the floor. He languidly waved the pistol back and forth to clear the blue-gray smoke from the air. The whore gave a single, piercing scream as she stared in horror at the body of her slain paramour. Rossiter clucked his tongue and plucked a brightly colored chip from the poker table.

“This should take care of the inconvenience,
cherie
,” he said, slipping the poker chip into her bloodstained cleavage.

“Alex! Alex, wake up! You’re having a nightmare!”

Tee shook Rossiter’s shoulder as hard as she dared, but he continued to make the same weird, muffled cries that had awakened her.

“Alex! Wake up!”

Rossiter’s lids flew open. His eyes stared about wildly, jerking back and forth in their sockets. “Thank goodness you’re awake!” she sighed in relief. “You were having one hell of a nightmare!”

Rossiter stared at Tee as if he had never seen her before, and then a horrible recognition seemed to fill his eyes, twisting his face into a mask of loathing. He grabbed her by the throat with the speed and strength of a snake striking a rabbit. She tried to scream, but all she could manage was a strangled shout. She struggled to break his grip, pulling both of them off the bed.

Rossiter awoke the moment he struck the floor. He rolled onto his back, rubbing his eyes and groaning as if recovering from a bender. He sat up and looked around, a quizzical expression on his face. “What happened? How’d I end up on the floor?”

Tee stood naked in the doorway, a butcher knife clutched in one trembling hand. Tears were running down her face. “Get out of my house.”

“What’s going on?”

“Get out!”
She grimaced in pain as she raised her voice. There were bruises visible on her mocha skin. It looked like she was wearing a necklace of smudged fingerprints.

Rossiter got to his feet, his eyes fixed on the cruel edge of the butcher knife. “I’d never hurt you, sweetheart...You know that, don’t you?” Tee’s lower lip trembled and the tears in her eyes made them glisten like fine sherry, but she did not lower the knife. “Just put that thing down, and we’ll talk, okay?” He moved forward, trying to look as unthreatening as possible.

Tee’s spine stiffened and she made a stabbing gesture with the blade.
“Don’t you touch me! Don’t you dare touch me, you goddamned motherfuckin’ freak!”
she shrieked. “You lay another had on me, I swear I’ll cut you!”

“Are you saying I did something to hurt you?”

“
Hurt
me?” Her laugh was somewhere between a sob and a hiccup. “You tried to
kill
me!”

Rossiter shook his head as if trying to knock her words out of his ears. “You’re crazy! I wouldn’t do anything like that!”

“
I’m
crazy?” The fear in her voice quickly changed into anger. “Get
out!
Get out before I call the cops on you! I never want to see you again! You hear me?
Never
!”

“Thass one helluva woman,” Tee’s next-door neighbor commented as he watched Rossiter dress himself in the clothes she had hurled onto the front stoop.

“It’s not my fault!” he told the old man. “I didn’t know what I was doing!”

The neighbor grinned, revealing a mouthful of snaggled teeth. “Thass what I always tell ‘em. Thass the truth, too. Don’t help none, though.”

Tempter was pleased how easily he had integrated himself into his horse’s psyche. It was so long since he had bone and sinew at his command; it was almost enough to excuse his lapse of control.

When he merged with the horse’s flesh this time, he had not expected to find the voodoo priestess lying beside him. Overwhelmed with emotion, he had seized the moment to avenge himself on his
bête
noir.

But now he realized the face of the woman was not that of his ancient enemy. How could the bitch possibly be still alive? Granted, she was a powerful witch, but all flesh must die. Besides, Jazrel would never have allowed a fool like Rossiter access to the
Aegrisomnia
, no matter what his sexual prowess might be. Was it possible that the woman he attacked was her descendant? Let the sins of the ancestor be visited upon the child, indeed.

Charlie squinted at the clock radio’s glowing numerals. Who the hell was ringing her doorbell at 2:47 in the fucking morning? She pushed Pluto off her legs and groped for her kimono. Just then she heard a pebble bounce off the French windows that opened onto the balcony. “Who’s there?” she hissed, peering down into the side yard,

“S’me! Open up!”Rossiter said, almost overbalancing as he tilted his head back to look at her.

“It’s too late!” she replied angrily. “You stood me up, Alex!”

“I’m sorry, babe. Really!”

“I waited for you at the restaurant for three hours!”

“I got held up at practice, babe! I couldn’t get loose.”

“You could have least
phoned
to tell me you were going to be late.”

“Said I was sorry, didn’t I? C’mon, open the door, okay?”

“Stop making so much noise! The neighbors will hear you!”

“
Screw
the neighbors!”

“No! Go
away!
”

“Pleeease?”

Charlie stared down at him, uncertain whether she should stay angry or give in. It bothered her that he had forgotten their first real date, but there was something in the way he grinned up at her, like a little boy who knew he’d done something naughty, that tugged at her heart.

“
Pretty
please? With sugar on top?” he wheedled.

The house across the street’s porch light blinked on and the curtain in the front widow twitched. Charlie grimaced. The last thing she needed was the neighbors calling the cops on her. “All right! I’m coming down! Just be quiet, okay?” She hurried downstairs and unlocked the front door, Pluto trailing at her heels.

“What’s so fucking important that you had to wake me up at three in the fucking morning?” she hissed as Alex staggered into the front room, smelling like he’d been baptized in a malted liquor vat. Pluto arched his back and fled to the comparative safety of the kitchen.

Rossiter grinned but didn’t say anything. He caught a fistful of nightie in one hand and pulled it over her head. Charlie was too surprised to protest as he thrust his free hand between her legs. He tossed the nightgown aside and grabbed one of her breasts, working it between his fingers like cookie dough. Charlie gasped and felt herself moisten as he pushed her down onto the Oriental rug. He teased her nipples with tiny little bites as he paused to fumble with the zipper on his pants. Then he was in her, slamming her buttocks against the floor as if he was dribbling a basketball. Charlie moaned and wrapped her legs around him, riding every thrust of his hips. Seconds after she came he collapsed atop her, panting like a man at hard labor.

“Dammit,” she whispered. “I think I love you.” Rossiter murmured something into her collarbone by way of reply. “What did you say?” she asked.

“Sssseraphine.”
His voice was
slurred, almost unrecognizable.

“Seraphine? Who’s that?”

All she got in response was a snore.

When the weight of Rossiter’s body finally became too much for her, she wiggled out from under him and took one of the throw pillows from the couch and tucked it under his head, then spread the afghan blanket her grandmother had sent her for Christmas atop him. She stood and watched him sleep for a long moment. There was something vulnerable and little boyish about him that was perversely erotic.

“What would you do without me to look after you?” she whispered.

Seraphine

O world invisible, we view thee,

O world intangible, we touch thee,

O world unknowable, we know thee.

—
The Kingdom of God
, Francis Thompson

Chapter Thirteen

Summer in New Orleans is endured, not enjoyed.

It is a hot, sticky season punctuated by daily late-afternoon cloudbursts and the occasional hurricane. Those who can afford to do so, flee the city’s stifling heat and pervasive mugginess for more hospitable climes during the summer months. Those left behind have no recourse but to turn up their air conditioners and try not to set foot outside from noon to dusk. But for those who cannot afford air-conditioning, summer in New Orleans is the closest thing to hell they will know before their deaths. Tempers fray, attentions spans atrophy, and will power wilts under its relentless heat, turning even the slightest physical effort into a Herculean task.

Before the advent of the window unit and household refrigerators, swamp fever routinely ravaged the city from June until October. Although that particular problem had long since been eliminated, the city still remained susceptible to the malaise known as the Summer Crazies.

The long months of ever-present heat bring the lunatics of the city out like ants escaping a burning log. The essence of their madness is picked up by the wind and spread throughout the general populace until everyone is just a little bit touched. The result of this summer-born lunacy are found in the cyclical reports of UFOS hovering over Jackson Square, werewolves roaming the above ground cemeteries in Metairie, and sightings of Elvis buying a wild cherry Sno-Bliz on Tchopitoulas Street.

Jerry’s air-conditioner had crapped out relatively early in the season. His apartment was barely tolerable with the window unit rattling away twenty-four/ seven; without it, it was damn near unlivable. He spent most of his time sitting in his underwear in front of an oscillating fan, too enervated by the heat to do anything but drink beer and stare at the television. He didn’t mind it that much, really, since the heat kept him from thinking about Charlie. But the dreams the sweltering temperatures brought--that was a different matter.

They had started not long after the voodoo candle escapade, growing stronger with every passing week. At first all he could remember of them were strange, glowing shapes that looked like neon signs designed by Picasso floating in an endless void. But recently he found himself dreaming about being lost in a jungle, surrounded by unseen things lurking in the shadows. He always woke up before arriving at his destination, wherever it was. The last thing that crossed his mind that night, before he drifted into slumber, was how he wished his subconscious would pick a cooler dreamscape for him to escape to.

He was walking through a jungle, following a narrow trail through the creepers and thorny vines. It was night and he could see red eyes watching him from the darkness. He heard the cries of strange birds from deep in the bush and the throbbing of drums. His skin was slick with sweat, his hair plastered to his skull as if someone had dumped a bucket of water over his head.

Suddenly the trail widened and he saw a dark outline against the thick tangle of greenery. As he drew closer he saw that it was a mud hut with a thatched roof. Light spilled from the doorway. Something told him this was the place he had been searching for. As he walked toward the building, the drum-beat grew louder and he heard the drone of human voices. Something told him he had to hurry or he would be late for the meeting. He stooped to enter the hut, brushing aside a curtain of polished cowry shells.

Although the outside of the hut seemed no bigger than a single room, its interior was a thousand times larger, with whitewashed walls as high as a European cathedral’s. Strange designs covered the walls, the drawings so ornate no human eye could divine their beginning or end. A wooden pillar the size of a California redwood dominated the center of the hut. It was around this mammoth peristyle The Seven were gathered.

Jerry stood in the shadows and stared at the gods, for surely creatures of such epic proportion had to be divine. They stood in a circle facing the central pillar, and when they spoke the walls of the temple shuddered. Jerry realized that the drumming sound he had heard in the jungle was the beating of their massive hearts.

Although The Seven were alien to him, as he looked at each in their turn a dim recognition sparked within him, as if recalling the names of long-lost childhood friends. The first was a feeble old African-American man the size of a building, dressed only in rags. His hair was white and grizzled, as was his beard. He leaned on a crutch made from a split tree, and across his bowed back was slung a haversack big enough to carry a bus. Whenever his palsied limbs trembled, the earthen floor shook as well.
This is Legba,
whispered a voice inside Jerry’s head.
The Messenger of the Gods; the Guardian of the Cross Roads.

The second was a powerfully built African-American man with very light skin and eyes the color of sea foam. He was dressed in the jacket and epaulets of a naval officer, and in place of an admiral’s hat we wore an old-fashioned steamboat atop his head, smoke billowing from its funnel. He smelled strongly of brine, and instead of military medals, his chest was adorned with starfish, conch shells, and crossed oars, with seaweed for braid. Again came the inner voice:
Behold Agwe: The Shell of the Sea; the Tadpole of the Pond.

The third was a python of Brobdinagian proportions that lay coiled next to Agwe, its shimmering coils reflecting the colors of the rainbow. The sight of its monstrous head weaving to and fro as its forked tongue tasted the air was hypnotic.
This is Damballah: Father of Wisdom; Giver of Treasure; Granter of Wishes.

The fourth figure was an African-American man dressed in the simple clothes of a rustic farmer: straw hat, denim shirt, canvas pants, and worn leather sandals. In one hand he held a machete large enough to fell entire forests. His skin was so black he looked to be made from obsidian. He puffed on a short clay pipe and the smoke that rose from its bowl smelled of freshly turned earth.
This is Zaka: Spirit of the Land; Tender of the Fields.

The fifth was a figure dressed in the uniform of a Napoleonic cavalry officer, the feathered plume on his hat the color of blood. He clutched a saber and chewed on a half-smoked cigar with teeth the size of tombstones, his eyes blazing like the dying sun. The smell of blood and iron was strong with him.
This is Chango: Greatest of Warriors; Maker of Machines; Lord of Fire and Chaos.

The sixth was an African-American woman as beautiful as she was big. The very sight of her was enough to bring Jerry to a full erection. She was very light-skinned, with long, unbound hair that reached almost to her feet, and was dressed in a blue gown covered in precious stones. She stood with her hands on her hips, her lips pursed and eyes lidded.
This is Erzulie: Goddess of Love and Jealousy; She That Is Beauty.

The seventh and last of the Loa was a thin, skull-faced man dressed in a dark frock coat with a silk top hat atop his hairless head. Wire-rimmed smoked glasses obscured his eyes. He leaned against a shovel like a dandy with his walking stick. Jerry recoiled from the odor of decay that emanated from the gaunt figure.
This is Baron Samedi: Lord of All Gravediggers; King of the Cemetery; Collector of Crosses.

The gods did not seem to notice Jerry’s entrance, but instead were focused on the tiny figure of a woman standing before the giant column. The woman was naked save for body paint and a red feather braided into her hair. Beside her was an equally tiny red wagon. The woman’s voice was strong and sure, despite her diminutive size. It was the voice of a woman accustomed to putting questions to gods and getting answers.

“I have tried to awaken him, but he refuses to abandon the dream.”

Agwe spoke first, his voice like that of crashing surf. “You have given him signs?”

The woman nodded. “Many times over, yet still he sleeps.”

“This man you speak of, is he a child of the blood?” Zaka asked laconically, puffing on his pipe.

“Non; il est Blanc.”

“
Les Blancs
are blind and deaf to that they would not know. It has always been so,” Chango said, sparks flying from his tongue. “Their souls are closed to miracles.”

“Does not
le Blanc
love the girl?” Erzulie asked, her voice as sweet and thick as honey from the comb.

“More than even he knows.”

Baron Samedi tapped the edge of his shovel against the ground, calling the attention of the others to him. “How much time before Tempter is free again?”

“The
vévé
hold him still,” Legba said with a shake of his palsied head. “But he is crafty, that one.”

“The sssolution is sssimple then.” Damballah’s voice was a whisper that echoed like a shout. “If
le Blanc
resssisssts the warningsss, you must ssshow him what will happen if he doesss not obey the will of the Loa. Ssshow him what will befall the girl.”

“And what if he chooses not to surrender the dream?”

“If he lovesss the girl as you sssay,” the snake replied, “he will awaken.”

The woman nodded her acceptance of the rainbow serpent’s wisdom. When she turned in Jerry’s direction, he realized that they had known he was standing there listening the whole time. The woman who spoke to gods looked to be in her mid-thirties, with skin the color of caramel apples. A velvet patch decorated with a five-pointed star obscured her right eye.

“Look into my eye, Jerry Sloan,” she said, slowly lifting the patch that hit her empty socket. “Behold what shall happen if you continue to ignore the will of the Loa.”

Jerry wanted to look away, but it was as if a giant hand was clamped against the back of his neck. What he saw inside the priestess’s empty socket made him scream. He was still screaming when he woke up, drenched in sweat, the stench of gods still fresh in his nostrils.