Black Dust Mambo by Adrian Phoenix Page A

out. “And I’ll be dere as soon as I can to take care of my girl.”
    Dallas’s fingers paused at his belt buckle. Her unspoken words iced his spine. For the last time . “I’ll do my best to make sure that ain’t necessary, Gabrielle.”
    “You a good man, Dallas Brûler,” Gabrielle said, ending the call.
    Dallas plopped the receiver back into its cradle. Yeah, he had a feeling Kallie wouldn’t agree with that if she knew the only reason he was in New Orleans attending the carnival was to keep a close eye on her at her aunt’s request. And if she learned the reason why . . .
    He hurried to the dresser across from the bed and, as he rummaged through his opened suitcase for a clean shirt, his thoughts returned to the long, intense conversation he’d shared with Gabrielle a few weeks ago in the ivy-and-jasmine-draped courtyard of her Circle of Protection botanica in Bayou Cyprès Noir.
    “De loa done revealed a dark secret to me, Dallas. One I been keeping for years.”
    Unsettling words, for true. But those words had nothing on the ones that had followed from his former mentor’s lips, each word taut and knotted and rough like hand-twisted rope. A rope leading into a tar-black pit.
    “A seed done been planted inside de girl, a seed dat can never be allowed to blossom. If it does, Dallas-boy, den somet’ing more wicked den long-fallen Babylon and crueler den hell will walk de earth once more.”
    He remembered his own question: “ How will we keep the seed from blossoming ?”
    And Gabrielle’s answer: “ You keep it away from de t’ings dat make it grow. Dis seed craves darkness and strife and blood. We gotta make sure it don’t get dem. Gotta make sure de seed ain’t fed .”
    Dallas touched his fingers to the red flannel mojo bag hanging on a leather cord around his neck. He pinched it, releasing the pungent and protective scents of sandalwood and five-finger grass into the air.
    “Gotta make sure de seed ain’t fed .”
    Sounded like someone else had just tried to do the very opposite.
    Dallas buttoned on a teal long-sleeved shirt, his fingers working the pearl buttons with record speed; then, leaving it hanging over his jeans, he tugged on his Durangos.
    Dallas nabbed his keycard from the nightstand and headed for the door. He paused, hearing footsteps—quiet and full of purpose—approaching from the other side of the door. The hair prickled on the back of his neck. Somehow he had a feeling it wasn’t just the maid with her smooth café-au-lait skin and tight platinum-blonde curls, carrying an armload of fresh towels.
    Pulse racing, Dallas inched away from the door and put his back against the wall. He lifted his tight-knuckled fists up against his chest, in prime position to launch a knockout jab or bell-ringing roundhouse swing. He held his breath. Listened.
    But the door latch didn’t jiggle as someone tried it, or swing open to admit a furtive shape. No one knocked. Dallas only heard the soft sound of steps padding away .
    Well, hell . Dallas blew out his breath and lowered his fists. Flexed his fingers. Maybe it had been the pretty little maid with her cap of bright curls and liquid shadow-dark eyes, after all.
    He tried to remember if he’d hung up the do not disturb sign when he’d staggered back to his room last night, pint of Wild Turkey in hand. Unlocking the door, he swung it open. Empty hall. No cart full of fresh linen and cleaning supplies. No maid.
    Then Dallas glanced down.
    A bucket of water stood in front of his door. And at the bucket’s bottom Dallas saw a hand-stitched poppet wrapped in chains, its red yarn hair undulating in the water.
    Chest suddenly tight, Dallas coughed. He tasted bitter wormwood and ashes as water bubbled up from his lungs and filled his mouth. He tried to kick over the metal bucket, but he fell to his knees instead, choking.
    Drowning.
    The Brit staggered back a step, his expression shocked blank, and Kallie jerked free of his hold. She raced to the