Chapter Twelve
“This is it,” Murphy murmured. “The bokor lives here.”
I glanced around. “Where?”
“Legend says there’s a cave behind the waterfall and on the other side of the cave… the bokor.”
“Legends begin in reality,” I murmured.
I’d known that even before I’d j oined the Jäger-Suchers.
There was a bokor with enough power to bring the dead, to send Sarah’s ghost or, considering the footprints, something a little more corporeal, which made one part of the tale a reality. Why wouldn’t the part about where he lived be true, too?
“Thanks for bringing me,” I said. “I’ll be OK now.”
“I’ve come this far; I’m going, too.”
“Why risk your life?”
“Why risk yours?”
I met his gaze, refusing to look away.
“Oh.” His eyes widened, then narrowed. “You didn’t tell me your daughter was dead.”
I should have known a man like Murphy was adept at reading faces, putting together a few bits of info, and guessing the truth. He wouldn’t have survived as long as he had otherwise.
I turned away. The rain continued to beat down, as if it were trying to compete with the force of the waterfall.
“Why would you think that?” I asked, my voice too high and falsely bright.
“A better question would be why I didn’t think it before.”
He put his hands on my shoulders. Despite the rain, the warmth of his skin seeped into mine, and I had to force myself not to lean on him. Murphy was still a stranger, and now he knew my deepest, darkest secret.
“It won’t work, Cassandra.”
I curled my fingers into my palms so tightly my nails bit crescent moons into my flesh. “It will.”
“Death is the end; there’s no coming back.”
“You’re wrong. Death is a beginning.”
“If that’s the case, it’s the beginning of something else. Something she won’t want to come back from.”
I heard the echo of Renee’s words but ignored them now as I had then.
“Of course she will.”
“Even if it were possible to raise the dead, is a zombie existence one you’d wish on anyone?”
I spun around. “This bokor can raise the dead to live again. Just as they were before.”
Murphy shook his head, the storm—or maybe just concern for my sanity—darkening his eyes nearly to black. “That’s impossible.”
“I won’t believe that. I can’t.”
“I’m sure losing a child is a terrible thing, but what you’re doing isn’t going to fix it.”
“You’re wrong. Raising Sarah will fix everything.”
Including me.
“The bokor is a dangerous man. He’s up to something out here.”
“Exactly.”
“I meant drugs. Gunrunning.” He frowned. “Maybe slavery. Which would explain the disappearing visitors.”
“Slavery. Are we still in the same century?”
“You’ve never heard of white slavery?”
“Of course, but I don’t think there are too many white people out here.”
“There’s us.”
I bit my lip. Whoops.
” White slavery doesn’t actually refer to race anyway,” Murphy said. “It’s sexual slavery—all races.”
“You’ve lost your mind,” I muttered.
“No, that would be you.”
I lost my patience. “If you’re so worried about what the bokor will do to me, why did you bring me here at all?”
Murphy glanced away.
Hmm. He was hiding something, too. But what?
I had a moment’s unease. Perhaps Murphy was in league with Mezareau in his white slavery scheme, which meant I might find myself locked in a foreign brothel come next week.
My fingers stroked my knife. Or not. Either way, it wouldn’t hurt to make Murphy nervous.
“I work for the government,” I blurted. “They know I’m here.”
Not here, here, but Haiti here. However, Murphy didn’t need to know that.
I had no doubt Edward would find me if I disappeared—or at least send someone to try. If he let his agents get sold into white slavery how would that look?
I was grasping at straws, but right now straws were all I had.
“What exactly do you do for the government?”
“I’m a Jäger-Sucher. Monster-hunting society. Very hush-hush.”
Murphy stared at me for several seconds; then he laughed. “You had me going there.”
“I’m serious.”
His laughter died; his eyes had gone gray in the misty half-light that preceded dusk. “You don’t have to make up stories. I’m not going to kill you and toss you over a cliff, or keep you alive and sell you to the highest bidder.”
I’d never convince Murphy the Jäger-Suchers existed until I convinced him the monsters did. I had a feeling that wouldn’t be too much of a problem once we reached the other side of the waterfall. I waded into the pond.
“Where are you going?”
“Where do you think?”
I heard a loud, annoyed sigh, followed by a splash; then Murphy was at my side.
“Are these backpacks waterproof?” I asked.
“A little late to be asking that, but yes.”
About a hundred yards later we reached the falling water; I braced myself to dive through.
“Hold on.” Murphy grabbed my hand. “Let’s do this together.”
I was touched by the gesture. I should insist he stay behind; we could be going to our deaths. Instead, I tightened my fingers, and we went into the waterfall.
By all rights, we should have been driven to the bottom of the pond by the force of the cascading water, or at least pummeled hard enough to get a headache. But I popped out on the other side with nothing more than a momentary lapse in breathing.
I still held Murphy’s hand, but he seemed to be stuck. I tugged; nothing happened. The spray from the falling water made it hard for me to see; the wetness made it hard to hold on. If I lost my grip, what would happen? I didn’t want to find out.
I couldn’t touch bottom, so I had no leverage. Was he on the other side, or stuck in between? If it was the latter, I didn’t have much time before he drowned.
Was the waterfall a trial by faith? Like the Indiana Jones movie where Indy had to step into the abyss and then the bridge appears? If so, how would I ever get Murphy through—oh, he of little faith?
My own would have to be enough.
Reaching forward, I clasped my hands around his. “Please,” I whispered, and yanked with both my mind and my body.
Murphy erupted, landing on top of me, dunking me in midgasp. My mouth filled with brackish water and I struggled, kicked, then shot to the surface choking and spitting. I could swear I had a minnow in my mouth.
“You OK?” Murphy asked.
“No thanks to you. What happened?”
He started to cough as if he’d swallowed half an ocean. I eased my frustration by whacking him on the back. After a few good ones, he grabbed my wrist and made me stop. Spoilsport.
“You went through,” he said, “but I was stuck in between. My mouth kept filling up; I had to swallow or drown.”
“Why didn’t you drop my hand?”
He stared at me as if I were nuts. “I couldn’t let you go on alone.”
Murphy had risked drowning for me? He was almost like a hero.
“Then I heard you say, ‘Please,’” he continued, “and suddenly I was flying.”
His wet hair kept falling in his eyes, and the feathers hung limply by his cheek. Murphy snatched them out and tossed them aside. The beads were still braided firmly in place.
“I didn’t know you were that strong,” he said.
“Neither did I.” I contemplated the water. “It was like… magic.”