Darkness Becomes Her

Six

CRANK WAS RIGHT. THE NOVEM HAD CONCENTRATED MUCH, IF not all, of their effort and money on rebuilding the French Quarter, or the Vieux Carré, as Sebastian called it. As we ambled down Bourbon Street, every building had been restored, every windowpane, shutter, and iron railing refurbished. Even the sidewalks, which Sebastian told me were known as banquettes, ad been repaired. Like every postcard image I’d ever seen of the French Quarter, they left nothing out. The area thrived, too. This was their moneymaker. This was where the tourists came, where Mardi Gras still drew enormous crowds.

And Mardi Gras was in full swing, having begun on January 6. In a few weeks, it would end with the biggest parades and balls on the night before Fat Tuesday in February. In the meantime, there were balls every weekend, local parades, and vendors selling masks and costumes like crazy.

The Quarter teemed with activity, a vibrant place with doors thrown open to bars, antique shops, restaurants, clubs, and bed-and-breakfasts. Mules plodded by pulling carriages. Musicians played on busy corners. And the only traffic was the occasional delivery truck — no personal vehicles allowed in the Quarter. “To preserve the ambiance and history,” Sebastian explained.

“Voodoo Alley,” he said as we turned onto Dumaine Street.

The street was a colorful mix of homes and businesses, mostly voodoo related. “The ones like those”—he pointed to a ground-floor shop filled with small pouches, spell packs, relics, statues, scarves, and handmade dolls—“those are tourist traps.”

As we went by, a small walking tour exited the shop, the tour guide dressed like the old Voodoo Queen, Marie Laveau.

“Where are the real shops?” I stepped off the sidewalk and onto the street to go around the tour.

Sebastian shoved his hands into his pockets. “Back rooms, courtyards, private homes, the swamps. .”

We angled back onto the sidewalk, passing a long strip of houses on both sides of the street. The area became quieter, but no less colorful — the houses painted in the bright colors of the Caribbean. Long wooden shutters framed open windows, which allowed the breeze in from the river.

But even here in the residential space, voodoo was everywhere. Adorning every door, railing, and gate were beads, flowers, votive candles, gris-gris pouches, handmade dolls, beautiful scarves, trinkets, and effigies of saints.

Sebastian stopped in front of one such gate. The wrought iron whined as he pushed it open. We entered a tunnel, a dark space where the sound of our footsteps bounced off the vaulted brick ceiling of the courtyard passageway running between the West Indies — style homes on either side.

My eyes watered as we ventured from the darkness of the tunnel and into the bright light of a large walled courtyard. Water splashed from a fountain in the center and everywhere there were birds — chirping, fluttering, moving in the trees. Scarves and beads hung from the large banana tree in the back left-hand corner.

“This way,” Sebastian said quietly.

I followed him along the brick path to a stone patio that butted up to the first floor of the house. Three sets of French doors ran the length of the ground floor. The middle set was open, held ajar by potted plants and a crude, life-size wood carving of the Virgin Mary, her neck draped with beads.

Incense clouded the room inside. Fine particles of dust and wisps of smoke floated in random shafts of sunlight. The room was packed with things. Weird things. Old things. Gaudy things. So many things that I found it hard to concentrate.

“Sebastian Lamarliere,” said a deep, heavily accented Cajun voice with a slight singsong quality. A figure came around the corner in a thin, wide-sleeved robe that brushed the tops of long bare feet. Dark skin and eyes. Closely cropped gray, frizzy hair. Two large hoops in the ears. There were rings on the fingers of one hand and a bouquet of daisies in the other.

I was stumped.

It was the first time in my life I couldn’t tell a person’s gender. My eyes fell to the neck, looking for an Adam’s apple, but it was swathed in a colorful scarf, the ends trailing down the back of the gown.

“Jean Solomon,” Sebastian said with respect.

He said it in the French way. The French “Jean” was male. Male it is, then.

Jean went behind a long counter and retrieved a vase for the flowers. “These are for Legba,” he said, smelling a daisy before snuggling it into the vase.

Jean beckoned for us to step closer; the warm wise eyes and gentle tone of voice made me a little more at ease. I gave him a small smile, not sure what to say, and it took several uncomfortable minutes before he slid the vase aside and propped his arms on the counter. “What interesting thing have you brought into my shop, Bastian?” His eyes squinted at me, bright with amusement, but deep and knowing and mysterious.

“Sebastian brought me here to see if you can lift my curse. . an old one.”

An eyebrow rose at my words, or the fact that I’d answered for Sebastian; I couldn’t tell. “An old one, indeed.” He rested his chin on one hand. “Love the moon tattoo. What is your name, chère?”

“Ari.”

“And, what, Miss Ar-eee, will you offer the loa in return for removing this curse?”

I knew enough to know that loa were the spirits a voodoo priest called upon to aid him, and Legba was a spirit that acted as a guide between the priest and the spirit world. Or at least, that was how I thought it went. What I hadn’t considered was payment. And I was running low on funds.

“I tell you what,” Jean said, “we will see about this curse and the loa will tell you what they want for it, c’est bon?”

I released my breath. “Thanks.” His wink brought a smile to my face and eased the tension from my shoulders. Now we’re getting somewhere.

He moved around the counter, urging me and Sebastian into a large square room, ringed with items and chairs but empty in the center. On the far wall was a wide altar, caked with candle wax, small idols of voodoo and Christian religion, food, trinkets, and dried blood. There was a photograph of a woman in a turban and a large statue of Christ on the cross. Curled around the base of the statue was a yellow python. A small python, but size never really mattered when it came to snakes.

The blood drained from my face as the electric tingle of fear swamped me. My arms and legs went numb, and my heart began to pound like one of Sebastian’s drums. I froze, unable to move another step. Distance. Yes, keep your distance.

“It’s okay,” Sebastian said, sensing my distress. “Snakes are used to help the priest focus and connect with the spirits.”

“Come, come.” Jean shut the French doors and then shuffled to the altar, gently picking up the snake and setting it on his shoulders. Its tail curled under his neck as he lit the altar candles.

All the hairs on the back of my neck lifted. Jean turned to us and took two steps closer. One more and I knew I’d run. I wouldn’t be able to control it. The snake was staring straight at me.

But Jean stopped at the second step, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. “Legba,” he whispered reverently, reaching both hands up to stroke the snake. “Papa Legba, open the gate for me, so I can go through. When I return, I will honor the loa. Papa Legba ouvri baye-a pou mwen, pou mwen pase. Le ma tounen, ma salyie lwa yo. Papa Legba ouvri baye-a pou mwen, pou mwen pase. Le ma tounen, ma salyie lwa yo.”

Jean repeated his incantation over and over again until it sounded like a song. Faster and faster. He swayed as he chanted the words, putting himself into a deep trancelike state. The snake moved back and forth with Jean, balancing in its creepy reptilian way, eyes never leaving me. Sebastian and I found ourselves swaying too.

Jean stopped suddenly, deathly still.

I almost jumped out of my skin.

Six seconds passed. I counted them, trying to calm my racing pulse, but it wasn’t working. Slowly his eyes opened, and they were different from before. Milkier. He smiled and said a few unintelligible words, looking at us or beyond us, I wasn’t sure.

“What do you seek?”

I swallowed hard, casting a quick glance at Sebastian. He looked as anxious as I did, and a little paler. I drew in a steadying breath, noticing that Jean’s eyes and head had tipped back and were fixed on the ceiling fan. “Um.” I cleared my throat. “I seek a way to remove my curse.”

It was so fast I didn’t even see his face tilt back down or his eyes move. They were on the ceiling and then suddenly they were on me. Too fast to be human. I froze. The snake held its head out and away from Jean’s shoulder, intent on me.

And then all hell broke loose.

Jean or Papa Legba — whoever the hell he was now — yelled, jumping up and down as though he’d caught fire. The snake dropped to the floor and slithered underneath the altar, turning its head around to hiss at me. A furious argument erupted between Papa Legba and Jean Solomon. The same person. Two different voices.

I backed away slowly, catching bits and phrases in the broken English and French and whatever else they were speaking.

Sebastian reached out and grabbed my hand as Jean said to himself, “She cannot hurt—”

“Bah! Legba is not scared!” His head swung around and he ran right up to me, stretched out his neck, and stuck his face in mine. I couldn’t move or breathe. “YOU DON’T FRIGHTEN ME!”

Blood vessels swelled on Jean Solomon’s head. His face shook with rage. Then he straightened and marched back to the altar, gesturing wildly. “Dishonor, dishonor, dishonor!”

And then Jean’s calm voice, “Shh. Shh. Shh. .” Followed by unintelligible, soothing mumblings as Jean tried to placate the angry spirit.

More angry words.

And then Jean Solomon doubled over, and all was quiet except the blood hammering through my eardrums and the birds outside that began their songs once more. Goose bumps covered my skin. My grip on Sebastian’s hand was brutal, but he didn’t let go. Actually, he was holding on to mine just as hard as I held on to his.

Jean straightened; he looked confused, embarrassed, and a little frightened as he approached us. “You must go,” he said, and the voice that came out was more feminine and tired.

“But—”

“I am sorry, Miss Ari, but the loa will not help you.”

Desperation swept cold through my stomach. “Look, I can pay. I can get more money. Please, I need to know something, anything. What did he say?”

Jean ushered us to the French doors, pressing the handle so the doors would swing open. He held out a hand. “Please, go.”

I hesitated, but Sebastian tugged on my hand. Jean kept his eyes on the floor as we went through the door, but once we were out into the courtyard, he surprised me by stepping out and shutting the door quietly behind him.

Jean’s tone was low; obviously he didn’t want to be heard. “I have dishonored my loa with your presence here. It was my fault, for I did not see you as you truly were until I joined with Legba. You must never come back here.”

“Why? What do you mean?” My fists clenched at my sides. I wanted to scream in frustration. “What the hell is wrong with me?”

Sadness passed through his eyes. “I hope you never find out.” And then he turned away, shaking his head.

“Please, Jean,” I said, begging now. He saw my curse. He knew what it was; he was the only one who knew. “I need help.” Jesus Christ, I hated to beg. Hated it so much that it made my chest tight and sour.

Jean sighed, then shook his head again like he was about to do something he shouldn’t. He leaned away from the door. “You want to know the past, what has been put on you? Grind a bone of Alice Cromley into powder, powder as fine as dust, and then you’ll see. Those bones will tell you your story. Bastian knows, don’t you?” Sebastian nodded, and Jean seemed satisfied. “Good luck, chère.”

He went back inside and closed the door.

I turned to Sebastian. “Please tell me he’s not serious.”

Sebastian took my arm, leading me away from the house and back to the passageway. “Unfortunately, he’s dead serious.”

Figures.

I yanked my arm away and marched down the courtyard tunnel and back to Dumaine Street. I didn’t bother waiting for Sebastian as I stormed out of the gate, letting it slam back on the lock, and headed south.

All I wanted was some normalcy in my life. That was all! Why was that so freaking hard to come by? Why?

Tears stung my eyes, stupid, burning tears that I swiped away with the back of my hand. A scream welled inside my chest, pushing against my heart and ribs, hurting like hell. I sniffed hard and—

A bright flash blinded me.

An intense bolt of pain sliced through my brain, making me scream, hands going to my head as I stumbled to my knees in the street. I doubled over, my elbows on the pavers, my fingers pulling at the roots of my hair as the pain mushroomed out to the very ends of my skull and then rebounded back in to do more damage. I screamed again as waves of agony flowed through my head.

It was too much. . too much.

Hands curled around my shoulders, pulling me back, lifting me up off the ground.

My eyes opened but didn’t see, too blinded by pain. The side of my wet face bumped against cloth. Sebastian’s shirt. His smell. His voice, though I couldn’t understand his words. His lips and warm breath were on my temple, talking softly. I turned into him, seeking solace, comfort, some kind of escape, but it still hurt. Every step he took vibrated fresh pain through my head.

And then, thank God, he stopped. He held me tight, wrapping his arms around me, leaning back. I held on, squeezing my eyes closed and locking myself away. But not alone. Thankfully, this time, not alone.