Chapter Three
“Why would there still be an Egbo? There aren’t any more slaves.”
“Are you certain of that, Priestess?”
“Slavery’s illegal. Isn’t it?”
“Things are only illegal if you are caught doing them.”
“No. They’re always illegal.”
She smiled. “So young and innocent despite the pain in your eyes.”
I didn’t want to discuss the pain in my eyes with her or anyone else.
“Are you trying to tell me the bokor is a slave trader?”
“Of course not. That is definitely illegal.”
I rubbed my forehead. “What are you saying?”
“I will not tell you of the bokor. I will not take you to him. You are to stay away from the man. He is wicked and, I have heard, not quite sane.”
Too bad he sounded like just the guy I needed to see.
“Fine.” I lowered my hand. “When can I learn how to raise the voodoo queen?”
“I will send a houngan to meet with you.”
“I thought only a bokor could raise the dead.”
“Only a bokor would. Any priest or priestess may know how.”
Too bad I’d never met one.
“Is raising the dead worth losing yourself?” she asked quietly.
I lifted my chin, met her eyes squarely. “Yes.”
Renee held my gaze for a moment, then gave a sharp nod and stepped onto the veranda. By the time I followed, she was gone.
I returned to my empty room. I had to find the bokor, and I needed to get out of Port-au-Prince before Renee figured out what I was up to, if she hadn’t already.
She’d tattle to Edward. He’d come down here, or send someone else. Then we’d have the shouting and the arguing and the dragging me home.
I didn’t know Edward well, but I knew that much. He didn’t like his orders disobeyed. I had not been sent to confront a possibly insane, violent man. I wasn’t trained for it.
I’d be yanked out; one of Edward’s minions would be sent in, and the only hope I had of getting my daughter back would explode in a burning ball of fire—the common Jäger-Sucher method of dealing with problems. Although, come to think of it, werewolves exploded when shot with silver, I wasn’t sure what happened to evil voodoo priests.
I could not allow that to occur before I found out what I needed to know, so I locked my door and snuck out of the hotel.
Money talked, everywhere, and thanks to Edward I now had quite a bit of it. Less than two hours and several hundred dollars later, I entered a bar in a seedy section of Port-au-Prince—though, really, most of the city was iffy at best.
Blocked roads, huge potholes, open drains, and burning piles of garbage—I’d have been scared if I cared all that much about living. However, since I did care about my daughter, I carried the knife Edward’s influence had allowed me to bring into Haiti in a sheath at my waist. I wasn’t much good with guns, but the knife was a different story.
After my whole world fell apart I’d been understandably twitchy. I’d learned a little karate and how to handle a knife. I could even throw the thing, end over end, and hit a target on a tree eight times out of ten.
So if a tree ever attacked me, I was in excellent shape.
Over the last few hours, I’d discovered there wasn’t a Haitian alive who’d go near the bokor. But Devon Murphy would. For the right amount of cash, he’d sell his soul.
While the description made my lip curl—my husband had been obsessed enough with money to throw everything worthwhile away—nevertheless, I needed just such a man to lead me into the mountains.
Inside the Chwal Lanme—Creole for Seahorse if the icon on the sign was any indication—the scent of beer was overwhelming, and the crowd was thick. The tavern resembled an old-time sailors’ haunt, with a teakwood bar and a ship’s wheel as a chandelier. A lone white man slumped at an empty table, eyes half-closed, beer mug half-full.
“Murphy?” I asked.
His black gaze was beady in the bloated confines of his face. His beard gray and scraggly, he had to be fifty, maybe sixty. If he knew where the bokor lived, I didn’t care if he was a hundred.
“May I?” I pulled out the empty chair.
He drained the last of his beer, then, setting the glass down with a click, motioned to it.
Lifting my hand for a refill, I sat. After the bartender brought the drink, waiting at my elbow until I paid—
I guess running a tab wasn’t an option in a place like this—I got right to business. “I hear you’re the man to see if I need to go into the mountains.”
Murphy grunted.
“How much will it cost to take me to the bokor?”
White, bushy brows slammed together as he drained the beer in one long sip. His mouth opened; no sound came out. His eyes rolled back, and he passed out, slumping forward until his forehead kissed the tabletop.
“Son of a bitch,” I muttered.
“Is that any way for a lady to be talkin’?”
I spun around, and then I gaped. The man in the doorway was—
My mind groped for a word; all I could think of was exotic. His hair hung to his shoulders. Once light brown, it had been streaked nearly blond by the sun. Tangled in the strands were beads and feathers of unknown origin.
His skin had darkened to just short of bronze. Burnished gold bracelets were clasped around the honed biceps revealed by the torn-out sleeves of his once white shirt. Khaki trousers had been similarly attacked below the knees, leaving his sinewy calves as bare as his feet.
But what really drew my attention was his face. With sharp cheekbones, a square chin, and eyes that hovered between blue and gray, he was stunning.
When he tilted his head, a hoop flashed in his left ear. Before I could stop myself my hand lifted to my own pierced but no longer adorned lobe.
He smiled and instead of softening his face, the expression, combined with the hoop, made me think of marauding pirates and Errol Flynn.
“Were you looking for me, mademoiselle?”
His first words had sounded Irish; now his accent had traveled to France. I glanced at the sloppy drunk spread out on the table in front of me. “God, I hope so.”
“Which makes two of us. Step into my office.”
He disappeared through the door. I hesitated only long enough to stroke my fingertips over the hilt of
my knife before following.
As I entered a narrow alleyway, the heat of a tropical night caressed my face. The man leaned against a chain-link fence that separated the Chwal Lanme from another business of unknown origin. He lifted a bottle of beer to his mouth and drank.
Fascinated, I watched his throat work, captivated by a single drop of liquid that raced down his neck before disappearing into the collar of his shirt. I swallowed, the sound an audible click in the silence that stretched between us.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and offered the bottle to me. The idea of putting my lips where his had been unnerved me so much I stuttered. “Wh-who are y-you?”
“Who do you want me to be?”
“What?”
“For the right amount, I’ll be whatever or whoever you want.”
His accent was American now. He made me dizzy.
“I don’t understand.”
He lifted the beer, drank, then lowered the bottle. “Who are you looking for?”
“Devon Murphy.”
“Then you’ve come to the right place.”
“You’re Murphy?”
“I am.”
I was no longer sure if I was happy about that or not.
He took a step closer. I took a step back. My shoulders skimmed the wall of the tavern. He towered over me, which wasn’t hard since I wasn’t tall, but I figured he was well over six feet of wiry muscle.
My fingers crept toward my knife. His closed over them before they got there, and my gaze locked with his.
“No,” he said softly, squeezing to a point just short of pain before releasing my hand.
He didn’t move, continuing to crowd me, his body so close I swore it brushed against mine. All I had to do was bring up my knee, fast, and he’d go away—or perhaps go down—but I didn’t do it. I didn’t want to.
What was it about Devon Murphy that fascinated me? His beauty? His mystery? His strength?
Perhaps it was just my deprivation. I hadn’t been with a man since I’d learned the truth about my husband. Before that, there’d only been Karl. I’d thought I was dead inside, but I guess I’d been wrong.
“Back off,” I ordered.
His eyes widened; his lips twitched, but he moved. Suddenly I could breathe again. Unfortunately, all I could smell was him.
Why didn’t he stink like a half-naked tavern-dwelling beer drinker should? Why did he smell like soap, rainwater, and sunshine? I had a thing for sunshine.