Chapter Twenty-Eight
I tilted my chin to the left, to the right. Then I leaned in close, blinked, and gave a little laugh, though it was more uneasy than amused. My eyes were blue. Always had been.
I was just more spooked than I should be by the dream. The shift in color had no doubt been caused by the angle of the light in the bathroom.
The rationalization allowed me to breathe easier. I’d had a dream, nothing more. That decided, I dressed, made myself some tea, and tackled the paperwork in my office.
Two hours later I was caught up and ready to open the store. I walked into the shop, and Lazarus went nuts, hissing and striking at the chicken wire of his cage over and over. There was definitely something wrong with him.
“Trip to the vet for you,” I said, and the sound of my voice seemed to infuriate the snake more. He increased the strength and speed of his strikes and only succeeded in bloodying his nose, then knocking himself out.
I reached in and snatched him while he was unconscious. I knew better than to loll around. Lazarus had a habit of waking up and scaring the crap out of people. He was a regular j okester for a snake.
Quickly lifting him from his large cage, I placed him into a portable one, then hustled to the yellow pages and started calling people. Eventually I found a snake doctor.
Half an hour later I took the Crescent City Connection toward Gretna, a historically picturesque suburb across the river from New Orleans. Settled by German emigrants, Gretna had all the amenities of a small town, yet it was within minutes of a maj or metropolitan area.
Katrina had flooded them, of course; you couldn’t have a view of the river and not be flooded. However, they’d come back strong. I could see little evidence of the damage as I drove down the main street and parked in front of the veterinarian’s office.
Lazarus was awake if the furious hissing and the rhythmic thuds against the sides of his prison were any indication. Luckily the portable cage was more of a box with a handle and I couldn’t see him any more than he could see me. So what was he so mad about?
I stepped into the waiting room, and the three dogs already there began to howl, the sound earsplitting in volume. Their owners tried to shush them, but no luck. All three darted skittish glances in my direction between yowls.
“Cat?” one of the owners shouted above the din, pointing at my box.
“Python,” I said.
The man frowned. “He never cared about snakes before.”
The woman next to him tugged on the leash of her German shepherd, but he ignored her. “King’s never even seen one.”
I headed for the desk and the flinching receptionist. I hadn’t taken two steps when the dogs crawled under their masters’ chairs and their howls turned to whimpers.
The noise brought the vet, an older man with tufts of white hair over his ears but nowhere else, into the room. “What’s wrong?”
The dog owners pointed at me. I lifted my free hand. “I didn’t do anything.”
“She’s got a python,” the first man said. “The dogs whacked out.”
“Come on back,” the vet ordered, and I was happy to. He pointed to an open door, and I entered, setting the cage on the exam table.
“Weird,” he said, as he j oined me. “I’ve never known dogs to be bothered so much by a snake.”
“And here I thought they wouldn’t like snakes at all.” So few mammals did.
“I didn’t say dogs liked snakes; they just don’t howl and hide from them. Dogs are usually curious, which is why I end up treating them for snakebites.”
“Ah, that makes more sense.”
The vet smiled. He was tan in a way that suggested the outdoors, not a tanning booth, and his eyes were cheery and dark. His hands were gentle as he opened the cage and drew Lazarus out. “What seems to be the trouble?”
“He—”
Lazarus hissed at the sound of my voice and began to thrash. The vet had obviously handled snakes before, because he held mine behind the head, and Lazarus could do nothing more than that. With a muttered curse, the vet set him back inside and slapped the top shut. The thing rattled against the table, then stilled.
” That ’s the trouble,” I said. “He won’t stop freaking out.”
The vet frowned. “He’s your pet?”
I didn’t think it prudent, or productive, to explain about my met tet. This might be New Orleans, but I doubted the local vet would know what one was. Besides, p et was as good a description as any, if we weren’t using f riend—also difficult to explain.
“Yes,” I replied. “My pet.”
The box shook like fury.
The vet looked me up and down. “You don’t seem the type for a python.”
“Appearances are deceiving.” Since I was exactly the type for a python. “I like snakes. Always have.”
As a child I’d been fascinated—snake books, snake movies, snake stuffed animals. My mother had drawn the line at a snake pet. So had Karl. One of the best things about becoming a voodoo priestess had been the python.
“How long have you had him?”
“Three years.”
Over half as long as I’d had Sarah. No wonder I was so attached.
“Do you know how old he is?”
My heart stuttered. “Pythons live forever in captivity.”
“Not forever.” The vet’s face gentled. “More like forty or fifty years. However, I wasn’t worried about his dying, just curious.”
“Oh.” I took a breath. Why was I so nervous?
Because Lazarus’s love had been the one constant thing in my life since I’d become Priestess Cassandra.
Until Diana, he’d been the only one who loved me. Now he seemed to loathe me, and if I felt as though I’d lost my best friend that was only because I had.
“I was told he was two years old when I bought him,” I answered. “So around five.”
“Still young. Might just be snake puberty.” At my blank expression, the vet laughed. “Kidding. Though a lady python might help his disposition.”
“Know any?”
“A friend of mine has a female. I could ask about breeding.”
“You think that’s what his trouble is?” I’d never considered lack of nooky a big python problem, but what did I know?
“Hard to say with a snake. Still, it couldn’t hurt to set him up.”
“I guess.” I reached for the cage, and Lazarus hissed again, rattling the container so hard it nearly tipped over.
The man’s eternal smile became a frown. “Maybe you should leave him here for a few tests. Parasites.
Viruses. If my friend is amenable to breeding, he’ll have to be kept isolated at a lower temperature for a few weeks before the big day.”
“A few weeks?”
The thought of being without Lazarus that long disturbed me; however, I seemed to disturb him even more.
“OK,” I agreed. As I withdrew my hand, the cage stilled.
“What’s his name?”
“Lazarus.”
The vet’s eyebrows shot up. “Because he’s going to live so long?”
I shook my head. “He likes to play dead.”
The vet stared at me, as if waiting for me to laugh, but I wasn’t kidding.
“He thinks it’s hysterical when you reach in to check and he suddenly comes back to life.”
“I’ll have to remember that.”
I turned away, eyes burning. “Let me know if you discover anything.”
“You’ll be the first.”
I drove back to Royal Street, and my days returned to normal—or as normal as they get when you made your living as a voodoo priestess.
Most of the people who wandered into my shop were tourists, interested in books, sightseeing expeditions, and recreational gris-gris bags. Of course I was perfectly capable of producing gris-gris of a more potent nature.
Gris-gris were charms or talismans—small cloth bags filled with herbs and other, more secret, items. The term itself came from the French word for “gray” and referred to the black and white nature of the magic.
In New Orleans we referred to good magic as juju and bad as moj o. I had never made a moj o gris- gris, though I had been asked countless times. There was enough evil in the world; I didn’t plan on making more of it.
Did I really believe that a little bag of stuff could hurt or help people? Yes. I’d seen it happen.
My community was growing slowly, probably because I was a skinny white girl practicing an African religion, but it was growing.
I was busy day and night, yet still I was lonely. Diana had called, even brought Luc to visit once. The boy had to be the cutest thing on two feet; I wanted to hug him and burst into tears—which just wasn’t like me.
Diana had been as near the brink as I was. We were both waiting for the full moon, and there was nothing we could do to make it come any faster.
Murphy didn’t show up—he didn’t call; he didn’t write. I was starting to wonder if he was incarcerated or dead. Those were the only two reasons I could fathom for his not arriving to steal from me the diamond he’d already stolen from Mezareau.
One good thing, my period arrived right on schedule. So my time in the land that condom forgot could be forgotten.
If only I could stop dreaming of Murphy’s face I might be less twitchy. At least I hadn’t had the leopard dream again. Great mind sex aside, I think a repeat just might have sent me over the edge.
And I was getting mighty edgy. Perhaps because the moon was growing larger every night and would soon be a big round November Frost Moon hanging heavy in the sky. I’d have to raise the dead, and if it worked, by the Cold Moon of December I’d have Sarah back.
You think I’d be happier about it.
Lazarus remained at the vet. The man hadn’t been able to find anything wrong with him but had set up a date with the lady python. The vet wanted to supervise the session, which seemed a little pornographic to me, but whatever trips your trigger. So the cage where Lazarus usually spent his days remained empty.
Two nights before the full moon, I sat at the window in my bedroom sipping red wine. Since I had returned from Haiti, I preferred it to white.
Perhaps the weeks in the jungle had made me slightly anemic. That was the only thing I could think of to explain my sudden attachment to red meat, when I’d been more of a fish and chicken girl before.
The fog swirled in again, brushing my face with a cooling mist, reminding me of the jungle and the waterfall. But beyond the fog I heard the hum of Bourbon Street—laughter, music, glasses clinking— then a loud screech that started out sounding like an animal and ended up sounding like a woman.
I shook my head. The fog played tricks, amplifying noises, enlarging shadows. Nevertheless, in the distance, sirens wailed.
Nothing new in the French Quarter. Something was always going on, which meant something was usually going wrong.
I turned from the window, leaving it open to the breeze and the mist. The night was warm, but not warm enough to bother with the air-conditioning.
I was safe here. Not only was the courtyard surrounding my temple walled and gated, but most people were kind of scared of me. Word had gotten around that I could raise the loas, and while that was helpful to some, to others it was downright creepy.
After finishing my wine, I tumbled into bed wearing nothing but my underwear and a thin tank top. The sirens followed me into my dreams.
Basin Street near St. Louis Cemetery Number One, a dicey neighborhood unfit for tourists except in the daytime. I caught the scent of perfume, so strong I fought a sneeze. The click of stiletto heels against the pavement was so loud I twitched with every footstep. The closer I got, the faster she walked, as if she knew I was behind her and she was afraid.
The woman turned right, toward St. Louis Number Two, an even rougher place to be. I tried to call out, to warn her, but for some reason I couldn’t speak. Instead, I increased my pace and so did she.
A shadow materialized from the mist—definitely a woman—her breath came fast, a bit panicked. I caught the scent of terror mixed with the perfume. She kept looking over her shoulder, which only slowed her down and allowed me to narrow the gap. I wished I could speak and calm her fears, but I couldn’t.
She gave in to her panic and began to run; then I was compelled to run, too, or I’d lose her. Somewhere in the night I smelled food, and my mouth watered almost painfully; my stomach cramped, growling loudly. Dreams are so damn strange.
I’d never been a fast runner, but tonight I was. I had unending stamina and pretty impressive acceleration.
I understood me allure of the runner’s high as it slammed into me, making my head light and my heart aflutter.
The woman stumbled on the ancient cracked sidewalk and cried out, felling. The mist thickened. I couldn’t see any more than a shadow, could only hear terrified gasps, her frantic attempts to stand.
My steps echoed in the fog, but there was something off about them. At first I thought it was just the magnification that happens to sounds in the night, in the fog. Except mine were muffled, as if I were barefoot, and there seemed to be more thuds than two feet would cause. I glanced behind me, but there was nothing and no one.
As I turned back, the fog parted. The woman’s eyes went wide, and her scream made me skitter. I opened my mouth to tell her everything would be all right, and a low growl rumbled out instead.
The shock of that sound should have awoken me, if the terrified screams of my prey didn’t Instead power surged, a heady mixture of strength and magic. I gave myself over to the beast, lifting my head, calling to the night.
Hunger throbbed in my belly and my blood. I wanted the woman to run again, and she did. I gave her a few seconds’ head start; then I flexed my muscles and followed.
I let her think she might get away, waited for her breathing to even out, her steps to falter. Then I sprang, sailing through the air, hitting her in the center of her back, driving her to the ground beneath me.
I tore out her throat before she could scream; her blood tasted better than wine.
At last, I awoke. Tears had dried on my cheeks. I sat up, staring at my hands, rubbing at the blood I felt but could not see.
Out in the night, in the dark, in the distance, a small animal died shrieking, and I jumped, then glanced at the window.
There was a man standing in my room.