Chapter Three
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.
I shook my head hard enough to make it ache. When my vision cleared, he was still gorgeous and right in front of me. I thought of my daughter and why I had come.
“I heard you know the mountains.”
He shrugged. “As well as any man can know them.”
“Will you take me somewhere?”
“That depends upon where that somewhere is.”
“I don’t know where it is. I only know what I need to find.” My lips tightened. “Make that who.”
“You’re searching for someone in the mountains? I haven’t heard of any tourists being lost.”
“Do I look like a tourist?”
“Except for the knife, I’d say yes.”
“I’m not.”
He lifted his hands in surrender. “My mistake. There aren’t a lot of tiny white women running around Haiti. What are you?”
“None of your business. All you need to know is that I can pay, if you deliver.”
“Deliver what?”
“Me. To the bokor.”
His mouth flattened as the light in his eyes brightened. “Mezareau?”
I experienced a sudden chill despite the heat of the night, as if someone were staring intently at the center of my back. I glanced around, even though no one was here but us.
I shook off my unease, excited to hear the man’s name at last. “You know him?” I asked.
“Not personally. No.”
“You know where he is?”
His face became guarded. “Perhaps.”
I tried to refrain from sneering. “How much?”
“A hundred thousand.”
I laughed. “Dollars? Try again.”
He shrugged. “No skin off my nose.”
“I heard you’d do anything for money.”
While that should have been insulting, Murphy merely smiled.
“What’s so bad about the mountains?” I asked. “Why won’t anyone go there?”
“It’s not the mountains that keep people away, but Mezareau. He’s… not right.”
“Who is?”
Murphy tilted his head again, and I was distracted by the glint of his earring. Was the thing hypnotizing me? “What happened to make your eyes so sad and your voice so sharp, Miss… ?”
“Cassandra,” I supplied.
He continued to wait for my last name, but he’d be waiting a long time.
“Hmm,” he said when I didn’t answer. “Secrets, mon cher?”
This time he spoke French with the accent of the Irish.
“How do you do that?” I demanded.
He spread his hands, trying to appear innocent but failing. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You change accents every other minute. Where are you from?”
“Everywhere. Nowhere. Here.”
“Secrets?” I mocked.
“You tell me yours,” he winked, “and I’ll tell you mine.”
“When hell freezes over.”
“You don’t want to share?”
“Sharing always gets me into trouble.”
He smirked and my cheeks heated.
“I doubt you’ll tell me anything anyway,” I continued, “or at least not the truth.”
He put his hand against his chest in a dramatic gesture. A silver ring encircled one thumb. “You don’t trust me?”
“No.”
“Yet you want me to lead you into the darkest jungle,” he said.
“There isn’t a jungle anymore.”
The maj ority of Haiti was marked by a complete lack of tree cover. Deforestation caused by a total reliance on wood as energy and charcoal for cooking had decimated the country before the twentieth century. There were only a few forests left, and they were national parks.
“Figure of speech.” Murphy’s mouth curved. “How do you know I won’t take the money and run?”
“Because I won’t be giving it to you until we get back.”
“How do I know you have it?”
“I do.”
He shook his head. “I have a better idea.”
His gaze wandered over me and I rolled my eyes. “Get another idea.”
He laughed. “Sadly, that one seems to be stuck in my mind.”
“You and most men.”
“Yes. We are a disgusting lot.”
Now he sounded English. I resisted the childish urge to kick him in the shin. “Is there anyone else I can hire?”
He leaned against the fence, crossed his arms. His muscles bulged against the golden bracelets. The jewelry, the beads, the feathers, should have made him effeminate, but they strangely had the opposite effect.
“What do you think?” he murmured.
I didn’t bother to answer. I’d already been from one end of town to the other. Everyone was terrified of the bokor, if they would even admit to knowing what one was or that one existed. The single person who didn’t seem afraid, merely wary, was Murphy. He was also the only man who’d known the bokor ’s name or seemed to have any idea where to find him.
What was a hundred thousand dollars compared to both the life of my child and the death of the crescent moon curse? I was certain Edward would agree. I’d just opened my mouth to accept Murphy’s terms when he spoke first. “You tell me why you want to meet Mezareau, and I’ll take you to him for a reasonable fee.”
My teeth snapped together, narrowly missing my tongue. “Why?”
He shrugged and glanced away. “You seem desperate.”
And he didn’t seem the type to care.
“What’s reasonable?”
“Ten thousand plus expenses.”
That was reasonable. If you didn’t count baring your soul to a stranger in the mix.
“All right,” I said, offering my hand.
His fingers enveloped mine, so long, so supple and clever, I was reminded of a pianist, until heavy calluses rubbed against my skin. My gaze flickered over the numerous cuts, scrapes, and scars on his.
Murphy held on too long, and when I realized I was letting him, I yanked my hand away, making no effort to hide my unease as I rubbed the tingling appendage against my j eans.
He didn’t seem insulted. Not that I cared. He now worked for me.
“Do you want to do it here or inside?”
I gaped as images of “doing it” spilled through my head.
“Wh-what?” I blurted.
His grin told me he’d misled me on purpose, just because he could. This trip was not going to be easy, but then I’d never expected it to be.
“You said you’d tell me why you want to meet the _bokor” _ he said.
“True.” I strolled toward the door. “But I didn’t say when.”
***