young outlaw’s Holy shit assessment.
Despite the loa ’s requested presence, everything still felt very wrong to Gabrielle, dangerously off-kilter. From outside, she heard the low rumble of distant thunder. She carefully unstoppered the bottle of holy water, keeping her attention fixed on the Baron and his hip-thrusting pantomime.
“Thank you for answering my call and listening to my petition,” she said. “A young man named—” Gabrielle’s words withered in her throat as the Baron movedwith striking cobra swiftness to stand in front of Cash.
Mr. I-Don’t-Believe-in-Juju’s eyes widened. His eyebrows disappeared into his sweaty hairline. He hopped his chair back across the hardwood, but the Baron remained right in front of him as though the toes of his black leather dress shoes were duct-taped to the chair legs.
“Mmmph!”
A grin split the Baron’s lips. He tapped his walking stick against the top of Cash’s blond mullet, then the loa vanished. Cash stiffened, his eyes rolling up white in his head. He slumped in his chair, the ropes knotted around his ankles and wrists keeping him more or less upright.
Before Gabrielle could say a word, Cash straightened up in the chair, yanking free as though the ropes binding him had been braided out of butter, then rose to his feet. He ripped the duct-tape from his mouth and dropped the wilted gray strip to the floor.
Holding out his hands, he wriggled his fingers, then lowered his arms. “Pasty,” he declared. “But a fine cheval all de fucking same.” His nostrils flared. “Ah, I smell de rum.”
“Here,” Gabrielle said, lifting the opened bottle. She hadn’t expected the Baron to possess Cash, but then, she hadn’t expected him to actually manifest for an invocation of mercy either. “I humbly ask for a life, a young man named—”
The Baron laughed. “Let me drink first, woman.” He strode over to the coffee-table altar and snatched up the bottle of rum from Gabrielle’s hands. With a lewd wink, he tipped the bottle back and poured the hot-pepperedrum down his gullet in one long, throat-stretching swallow. The peppers’ sharp smell spiced the air.
Rum gone, the Baron saluted Gabrielle with the emptied bottle. “T’anks fo’ de drink,” he said, his silver-handled walking stick shimmering into his right hand. “And if I wasn’t married to my beautiful Maman Brigitte, I would fuck yo’ sweet pussy till you begged fo’ mercy.” Another lewd wink, then a sigh. “But I be married and I got motherfucking work to do.”
“My petition …”
“Ah, oui. Since Jackson Bonaparte already be in his grave, I t’ink it best to keep him dere.” The Baron laughed again, but the humorous warmth was missing this time. This time the loa ’s laughter cut through the air like a razor-edged shovel. “The sonuvabitch had it coming,” he said, sounding in that moment exactly like Cash.
But that was impossible. A possessed cheval remained that way until released by the loa . They had no voice of their own, no say, no—
“And you were right about that rum not being for any mortal man,” the Baron continued in Cash’s voice. “Hoo-ee! It was hot enough to set my throat on fire and burn my gut to ash. Good thing I ain’t mortal no more, huh?”
Gabrielle stared, mouth dry, heart pounding.
Scooping up the bread and cup of coffee from the altar, Baron Samedi sauntered back into the smoke, then smoke, loa, and the man he rode vanished as thunder cracked overhead.
Oh, Bon Dieu! How was this possible?
Feeling faint, Gabrielle pressed her fisted handsagainst her chest as though to keep her heart from pounding its way free. She stared at the woman snoring on the sofa in front of her, wondering how to tell her that Cash—the man who watched as her nephew was buried alive—not only housed the loa of death, but controlled him.
And he still hated Jackson Bonaparte.
S EVEN
A D ESPERATE AND B RUTAL F IGHT
F ound you, Daddy .
An image of Cielo flared
Despite the loa ’s requested presence, everything still felt very wrong to Gabrielle, dangerously off-kilter. From outside, she heard the low rumble of distant thunder. She carefully unstoppered the bottle of holy water, keeping her attention fixed on the Baron and his hip-thrusting pantomime.
“Thank you for answering my call and listening to my petition,” she said. “A young man named—” Gabrielle’s words withered in her throat as the Baron movedwith striking cobra swiftness to stand in front of Cash.
Mr. I-Don’t-Believe-in-Juju’s eyes widened. His eyebrows disappeared into his sweaty hairline. He hopped his chair back across the hardwood, but the Baron remained right in front of him as though the toes of his black leather dress shoes were duct-taped to the chair legs.
“Mmmph!”
A grin split the Baron’s lips. He tapped his walking stick against the top of Cash’s blond mullet, then the loa vanished. Cash stiffened, his eyes rolling up white in his head. He slumped in his chair, the ropes knotted around his ankles and wrists keeping him more or less upright.
Before Gabrielle could say a word, Cash straightened up in the chair, yanking free as though the ropes binding him had been braided out of butter, then rose to his feet. He ripped the duct-tape from his mouth and dropped the wilted gray strip to the floor.
Holding out his hands, he wriggled his fingers, then lowered his arms. “Pasty,” he declared. “But a fine cheval all de fucking same.” His nostrils flared. “Ah, I smell de rum.”
“Here,” Gabrielle said, lifting the opened bottle. She hadn’t expected the Baron to possess Cash, but then, she hadn’t expected him to actually manifest for an invocation of mercy either. “I humbly ask for a life, a young man named—”
The Baron laughed. “Let me drink first, woman.” He strode over to the coffee-table altar and snatched up the bottle of rum from Gabrielle’s hands. With a lewd wink, he tipped the bottle back and poured the hot-pepperedrum down his gullet in one long, throat-stretching swallow. The peppers’ sharp smell spiced the air.
Rum gone, the Baron saluted Gabrielle with the emptied bottle. “T’anks fo’ de drink,” he said, his silver-handled walking stick shimmering into his right hand. “And if I wasn’t married to my beautiful Maman Brigitte, I would fuck yo’ sweet pussy till you begged fo’ mercy.” Another lewd wink, then a sigh. “But I be married and I got motherfucking work to do.”
“My petition …”
“Ah, oui. Since Jackson Bonaparte already be in his grave, I t’ink it best to keep him dere.” The Baron laughed again, but the humorous warmth was missing this time. This time the loa ’s laughter cut through the air like a razor-edged shovel. “The sonuvabitch had it coming,” he said, sounding in that moment exactly like Cash.
But that was impossible. A possessed cheval remained that way until released by the loa . They had no voice of their own, no say, no—
“And you were right about that rum not being for any mortal man,” the Baron continued in Cash’s voice. “Hoo-ee! It was hot enough to set my throat on fire and burn my gut to ash. Good thing I ain’t mortal no more, huh?”
Gabrielle stared, mouth dry, heart pounding.
Scooping up the bread and cup of coffee from the altar, Baron Samedi sauntered back into the smoke, then smoke, loa, and the man he rode vanished as thunder cracked overhead.
Oh, Bon Dieu! How was this possible?
Feeling faint, Gabrielle pressed her fisted handsagainst her chest as though to keep her heart from pounding its way free. She stared at the woman snoring on the sofa in front of her, wondering how to tell her that Cash—the man who watched as her nephew was buried alive—not only housed the loa of death, but controlled him.
And he still hated Jackson Bonaparte.
S EVEN
A D ESPERATE AND B RUTAL F IGHT
F ound you, Daddy .
An image of Cielo flared
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