Blue Voodoo: A Romantic Retelling of Bluebeard (The Hidden Kingdom Series Book 2) (25 page)

She followed his cue, surveying the space. It wasn’t exactly what they’d hoped for, as there were no windows in the room to allow in natural moonlight. But the gilded ceilings were high; the paneled walls emblazoned with gold adornments in the shape of what looked like some kind of phoenix. After he and the servants had cleared the space of old furniture and dust, it almost looked like some kind of ceremonial hall. Not a perfect venue, but definitely a fine compromise.

Gaelle braced herself on his shoulders, and extended herself like a child trying to see over a crowd. “Would you look at the mantle? It practically takes up the back wall. Can we stand next to the fire, I’m dreadfully chil—“ Her breath caught as Narcisse let her slide slowly down his body, their chests, bellies, and hips aligned. Her eyelashes fanned low over her cheeks, as she lazily trailed fingers over his lips. “Well, maybe I won’t need the fire.”

Fabienne, the most formidable of the sisters, glided into the room clad in a regal, medieval gown that was the same blinding white as her sister’s, but with soft velvet panels and ornate rubies sown along the modest collar. She cast an assessing gaze around the room, taking in the silver and gold candles, the fire roaring in the hearth, and the sacred statues placed on the mantle to bear witness to their glorious return. Nothing on her face betrayed her thoughts, making it difficult to determine if she was pleased with his arrangements.

“I see you found my trail of rose petals and the hot baths. I hope my preparations met with your…satisfaction?”

Fabienne smoothed a hand over the top of her damp hair, toying with a small rosebud she’d tucked into her precise bun. “The bath was sufficient. I had hoped you would remember the rosemary, but the roses were a considerate touch.”

He nodded politely.
Damn it, I forgot the rosemary
.

A large thick braid swayed at Esther’s back like a pendulum as she trailed into the room after her sisters in a gown that looked like it had been stolen from the Ville au Camp country side. Wing sleeves and reeds of organdy and silk hung off her dainty frame in striped waves of silver and white, a satin sash drawn tight under the empire waist, elegantly accentuating breasts that were entirely obscured behind the high-neckline and a sweet, lace bib. She took her spot at her eldest sister’s left shoulder with grace, and offered Narcisse a small, blushing smile.

“Don’t worry about the rosemary.”

“I loved the trail of rose petals,” Gaelle cradled his face, lifted on her tip toes to touch her nose to his. “It was such a romantic and mysterious touch.”

Narcisse ducked his head, brushing his lips against her ear. “I cannot wait for tonight. It is good that you are well-rested.”

“And are you well-rested too, my love?” She pressed her cheek to his, tickling the curl of his ear with a whisper. “I know we gave you free rein to take whatever lover you may choose—and we will of course honor our word to let you continue to do so even after our marriage. But I do hope you will always be certain to save the…bulk of your energy for us?”

Narcisse relished the flood of arousal that infused his blood at the reminder of the future. Three gorgeous, powerful, rich wives, a life of luxury, and the freedom to take as many lovers as he liked. He didn’t care that he had to share them with two other husbands—though the idea that one of those husbands would be a
tikoloshe
did turn his stomach. It was still a life that most men would give their right arm for.

“I will
always
prioritize you over any other women,” he promised, keeping his voice a low rasp. “I am yours to use until you are sated—until
we
are sated.” He dropped his voice even further. “It will be a wonder if I ever leave your bed.”

Before Gaelle could respond, Narcisse winked at her and swept across the room to where Fabienne stood, sharp eyes cutting over him in assessment. She had always been the leader, the last to succumb to his charms, the one who needed the most careful attention. Gaelle and her shameless passion were a pleasure, and Esther’s shy desire was a treat, but Fabienne was his challenge. And Narcisse loved a challenge.

He bowed his head to Fabienne. “I hope I have pleased you.”

“You have served your purpose well. The women at our grave—the ones who broke Dominique’s power circle. Friends of yours?”

Narcisse risked a peek at her through the fall of his golden hair. “Julien and Dominique grew closer than I expected. I decided it would be wise to use Dominique’s sense of duty to encourage her to perform the ritual.”

“
You
decided?” shrieked a voice.

Narcisse gritted his teeth as the unfortunately familiar hacking sound preceded the
thunk
of a pebble onto the floor. A second later, the
tikoloshe
popped into view, as swarthy and unkempt as ever. It glared at Narcisse, beady red eyes glowing from a nest of tangled black hair.

“It was
my
idea!”

Fabienne pinched the bridge of her nose. “I don’t care whose idea it was. Fortunately for both of you, she did perform the ritual.”

Ignoring the troublesome fey, Narcisse slunk behind Fabienne and carefully laid his hands on her shoulders. She tensed briefly, but as he kneaded her muscles, she relaxed. Taking a moment to admire the way the dress he’d bought for her fit her beautiful curves and flattered her mahogany skin, Narcisse tenderly worked the knots from her muscles, the stiffness vanishing from her body under his ministrations.

She dropped her chin, offering more of her back. “Oh, Narcisse, I did miss you.” Congratulating himself, he laid a gentle kiss on her shoulder. “I live to serve you, my love.”

“Speaking of servants.” She slid from under his hands, pacing the room with quick steps. “The bond to the
impundulu
must be completed tonight. His affection for that woman is greater than we anticipated and we must cement our control over him before he does something foolish.”

Gaelle fisted her skirts and practically ran to her sister’s side. “I will bond with him!”.

“You don’t have the concentration to bond with him.” Esther’s mouth was a red slash of disapproval. “Let me bond with him.”

“Do you think your concentration is so much better, Esther?” Fabienne narrowed her eyes. “I recall that it was your bond the
impundulu
broke first.”

“We
let
him break those bonds,” Esther protested, her cheeks taking on a hint of red. “You said we had to let him think he’d truly killed us.”

“I also said we had to make it difficult enough that he would believe his escape was genuine. You broke like a dry twig!”

Narcisse studied the exchange carefully, analyzing each woman’s face in turn. Getting in the middle of a fight between women was never a good idea—getting between
sisters
was suicide. He glanced at the
tikoloshe
.

“Watch and learn,” he said under his breath. “I’ll show you how a real man settles a quarrel between his women.”

The
tikoloshe
bristled immediately, eyes glowing crimson as he glared at Narcisse. In a flash, the fey darted out to stand between the sisters, hands raised as if to hold them back. “Fight not amongst yourselves. Surely it doesn’t matter who bonds with the lowly bird-man? Not when there are more important matters to discuss.”

All three women focused their attention on the fey, bodies going so still that they appeared as ebony statues. The atmosphere in the room changed, became charged with magic and the potential for violence. The fire in the hearth flared, then grew smaller, as if the sudden frost in the room had laid a heavy hand over its warmth.

“Sisters, truly we should be grateful for the presence of this
tikoloshe
.” Fabienne curled her lip in a snarl. “How else would we know what was
important
?”

“How
lost
we would be without him,” Esther hissed.

“And to think,” Gaelle’s eyes narrowed, “some men would have been
afraid
to speak to us in such a way.”

The
tikoloshe
’s brow furrowed, though it was hard to tell given the sheer amount of hair covering his face. He hunched over, his instincts obviously catching on to the danger he was in even if his brain hadn’t.

Goodbye, you miserable hairball.

“I did not mean any offense,” the
tikoloshe
insisted. His gaze flicked nervously amongst the three women. “I only meant that there is no reason to fight with one another.”

“We were not
fighting
,” Esther growled.

“We do not
fight,
” Gaelle asserted.

“We were
discussing
our options.” Fabienne took yet another step, towering over the
tikoloshe
. “And I do not recall inviting
you
into the conversation.”

“Is this to be the norm then?” Esther wondered aloud. “Will you be chastising us, treating us like squabbling children?”

“I do not like being treated like a child,” Gaelle sneered.

“I meant no offense,” the
tikoloshe
repeated. The red glare returned to his eyes, shining like spilled blood over pearls. He fixed his gaze on Narcisse. “It was him. He goaded me into speaking.”

Narcisse bowed his head, keeping his attention firmly on the floor. “I have no place in this conversation. I am a willing servant and I will wait until my beloveds need me.” He slid his gaze to Fabienne. “Though I do hope you need me soon.”

He filled his voice with heat, looking at his dominant wife with hooded eyes. He thought of all the things he would do to her delicious body once they were finally in their wedding bed, and he let his thoughts show in his expression.

Fabienne’s chest rose and fell a little faster, and Narcisse could practically feel her pulse on his tongue. He allowed himself a small smile.

“Bring me
rum
!”

A new voice bellowed into the room, the sound holding a physical weight that shouldn’t have been possible in a human voice. Narcisse jerked, the seduction he’d been weaving shattered as all three of his fiancées and the
tikoloshe
directed their attention to the source of the voice.

Julien stormed into the room. He was still naked, flesh flecked with dirt and sweat and one ankle patched with shiny pink scar tissue. A red scarf tied around his left arm was the only stitch of cloth on his body. It looked suspiciously like one of the ties from the red curtains in one of the bedrooms. Narcisse bit his lip. A red scarf tied around his arm. There was a significance to that, if he could just remember…

The
impundulu
held a sword in his hand that Narcisse recognized from a display in the hall. He brandished it with the bravado of a drunk sailor, and his wild eyes scanned the room, fixing on each person in turn. He sneered and held out his arms.

“Have you no rum to offer me then?” he demanded.

Narcisse glanced to his fiancées for some indication on how to react, pausing as he registered the expressions on their faces. Shock and joy tugged at their features, painting their faces like manic jack o’ lanterns. Without looking at one another, they had moved closer together, facing Julien in a straight line of three. The defiant stiffness he would have expected to see in them was missing, their bodies cowed with respect.

Something is wrong.

“Ogou,” Gaelle breathed.

“How?” Esther whispered.

“This is not possible,” Fabienne murmured.

Realization dawned on Narcisse and a tendril of dread curled around his heart like a serpent choking the life from a gazelle. Ogou. Warrior spirit, descendent of Ogun, god of lightning. The red scarf, the sword, the demands for rum. Suddenly they all made perfect, horrible sense.

Julien had offered up his body for possession. And Ogou had accepted.

Mind working furiously to process this change of events, Narcisse scanned the room. If Ogou had truly possessed Julien, then there was no guarantee the bond the sisters had put on his form would hold. When Ogou left Julien’s body, the
impundulu
could be free to take whatever form he wished—and that did not bode well for his survival. He needed a plan B. Julien was a pirate, and this was his home.

There has to be rum here somewhere
.

The sound of a rock scraping against the floor caught Narcisse’s attention and he glanced up just in time to see the
tikoloshe
swallow his pebble again. Ogou saw it too. The second after the fey disappeared, Ogou leapt across the room, sword arcing through the air in a deadly sweep. Metal bit into invisible flesh and something heavy and wet hit the floor. The
tikoloshe
’s head and body shimmered back into visibility—ten feet away from each other.

“It is so hard to find good help these days.” Ogou flicked the blood from his sword. He glanced at the three. “Isn’t that so?”

“Ogou, we are truly honored by your presence.” Fabienne bowed her head and dropped to her knees, followed immediately by her sisters. “How may we serve you?”

“I will have the
wanga
you wear around your neck.”

Fabienne grasped the object in question, her face hardening even as she visibly fought to remain respectful. “My
wanga
? But, powerful Ogou, I—”

Ogou leapt again, the sword slicing through the air. Fabienne squeaked as the rope that held the
wanga
around her neck fell in pieces, spilling the bottle to the floor. Ogou stomped down on the glass, shattering it beneath his bare foot. A spark flared to life over the green glittering shards and was gone.

Dominique’s spirit.
Narcisse scanned the room with more desperation now, his hands trembling as he rubbed them over his thighs. The voodoo queen would be murderous. He had to ingratiate himself to the
loa
quickly if he wanted to have any hope of surviving this night. Finally his eyes landed on the table beside the fireplace. Three bottles of liquor sat on its gleaming wooden surface, fine crystal sparkling in the firelight.