Blue Voodoo: A Romantic Retelling of Bluebeard (The Hidden Kingdom Series Book 2) (9 page)

A moan fell from her lips. The sound shocked her back to reality, reminded her of her purpose. She continued the kiss, relieved to find the pouch in her pocket was only wet on one side.

She broke the kiss, part of her crying out, not wanting it to end. She licked her lips as she leaned back, gazed into Julien’s eyes. The brown orbs were cloudy with desire, that heavy-lidded look that still haunted her dreams. The string dug into her fingers as she closed her grip.

“I have to go.” Her voice was a gentle exhalation, more of a breath than words, almost a caress in and of itself.

“Not without me,” he answered, his voice roughened, deeper.

“Yes. Without you.”

As she spoke, she swung the pouch up in a practiced arc. It landed with a dull thump on Julien’s face, a clean hit right between the eyes. He shouted and flung himself back, then bellowed in pain as the cayenne pepper hung before him in a cloud of gritty, eye-searing heat.

“Until the final night,” Dominique promised.

She bolted out the door, ducking to avoid Julien’s flailing arms as he grabbed for her, to stop her from escaping. A nervous laugh fell from her lips, the sound spurred on by the adrenaline soaking her system. She kicked the door closed behind her, checking the hallway and then rushing for the grand staircase ahead.

Julien’s curse followed her down the stairs as she slowed to a cool saunter. Servants stared at her, a question in their eyes that they dared not give a voice to.

The boy.

Dominique dropped to kneel on the ground, pulling odds and ends from her pockets. Ignoring the servants not-so-subtly stopping to stare at her, she plucked a few herbs from the pile and set them on a square bit of fabric. Her fingers grew warm as she held them to the mixture, calling on the heat of her power. She whispered a prayer to the
loa
and imbued the herbs with their blessing. Energy sizzled to life in the dry bits of plant and she quickly wrapped them in the satchel and tied it with a small length of string.

“What is your name?”

The servant spying on her from around the corner squeaked in surprise as Dominique pinned her with a look. She swallowed hard, hands locking together in front of her, dark skin contrasting against her white apron.

“C-C-Catherine,” she stuttered.

“Catherine, take this to the injured boy.” Dominique thrust the satchel toward the girl. “Tell him to rub it on his leg three times a day. If he can sit in the sunlight while doing it, so much the better.” She met the girl’s eyes, held her gaze. “And remind him to say his prayers and thank the
loa
.”

“Y-Yes, Madame Laveau!”

Dominique gathered her supplies and quickly shoved them back into her pockets. She’d stayed too long, Julien would be recovering soon. She brushed off her skirts, squared her shoulders, and left the house with her head held high. With any luck, no one could see the strain on her face, the lines of stress carving paths she could feel like brittle cracks.

She had a great deal to think about.

And a lot of planning to do.

Chapter Six

“Master?”

Cayenne pepper. The witch hit me with a pouch of cayenne pepper
.

Every tiny speck of the hot herb felt a thousand times its size, a flaming ember held directly to his corneas. Searing agony sealed Julien’s eyelids shut as his body produced rivers of tears to wash out the spice. He ignored Guillaume, groping around the room in search of the wash basin. His wandering hand struck something, the knock against his knuckles followed by the sound of shattering ceramic.

That better have been the bowl and not the pitcher.

Grinding his teeth, he slowed his movements and carefully felt along the table until his hand closed on the slim handle of the pitcher.

“Are you all right?”

Guillaume hovered around him like an annoying insect as he upended the pitcher, pouring water over the twin pits of fire his eyes had become. Water sluiced over his face and soaked his grimy pants as it poured down his body. He ignored the mess, blinking into the cool stream in an effort to rid himself of the wretched, burning dust. The relief was minimal, even the barest remnant of the pepper a horrendous, stabbing pain.

She’ll pay for this
. He hurled the pitcher across the room and was rewarded with a satisfying crash.

“Master, do you—”

Julien whirled around, nostrils flaring, tears pouring from his eyes to mingle with the water dripping from his hair. “Quit your pestering and just get more water!”

Vision blurry, he could barely make out Guillaume’s bulging eyes, so huge they threatened to fall out of his skull. His elbows pressed into his sides, his usually pristine uniform a mess of wrinkles as his body huddled in on itself. He stumbled back a few steps, nearly tripping over the broken ceramic that had been the bowl before pivoting on his heel and fleeing the room.

Julien ran a hand over his face and swore as the pressure against his eyes sent fresh stabs of pain like red-hot nails through his skull. He dropped his hands, letting more tears well up to wash away the witch’s cursed herb.

“Blue beard and now red eyes. I’ll be a rainbow trout by the time that wench is through with her incessant tantrums.”

Like a blind man traveling familiar terrain, he returned to his bed and sat on the ruined sheets. He planted his knees wide apart as he made it a point to sit as far away from where she’d lain as possible. The basket tilted on the bed, the rum sloshing in its glass prison. Julien snatched up the bottle, put it to his lips, and pointed the bottom at the ceiling.

Familiar fire soothed his throat, raced for his belly where it spread pleasant warmth. He swallowed mouthful after mouthful until the liquid no longer burned, his nerves dull to the alcohol’s bite.

“I will lift the magic from your pretty face if you will serve me.”

Dominique’s offer lingered like an echo, taunting him, tempting him, her voice a spell in itself. Service in exchange for lifting the curse. Only for a week. Serve her for a week, and—

No!

He shot off the bed and tore at his sodden pants, suddenly needing to be rid of the reminder of the fiasco in the swamp, of her lingering scent, of
her
. The wet material clung to him, the cotton turned to thick taffy, damp and sodden material twisting around his legs. Not caring if he shredded them in the process, he gave them a vicious yank, wishing he had his talons to quicken the job. The vindictive article finally inched down his legs only to snag on his boots. Another swift pull and he toppled back onto the bed, spearing a litany of curses at the ceiling.

The door opened and footsteps heralded Guillaume’s untimely return. Julien wrestled with wet laces that seemed to have been glued into knots by the silt-laden bayou.

“My lord, do you require help?”

Julien froze, realizing what a sight he must make. His heart pounded against his chest wall, each beat more bruising than the last. His ragged breathing filled the room, his shoulders heaving with every breath he dragged into his lungs. Guillaume hiccupped somewhere behind him, and he slowly bared his teeth over his shoulder. “No. Thank you.”

Guillaume fell back a step, his face losing some of its color. He swallowed hard, his body leaning toward the door even as he set the bowl of clean water on the table and took the dirty one. “M-may I get you anything else?”

Details sharpened, the world suddenly more vivid, more complex. There was a small speck of lint on the shoulder of Guillaume’s blue uniform and a tiny scar on the right side of his jaw that Julien had never noticed before. The servant’s paunchy face became a map of wrinkles, dotted with red splotches of blood that seemed all the brighter the paler he became. The tendons in the servant’s throat throbbed, skin fluttering with his pulse. A rabbit stilled by the shadow of a hawk.

Julien blinked but the world remained sickeningly vibrant, the details sharp and brilliant.

Blast
.

Averting eyes he knew must have bled to black, that were now more avian than human, Julien forced himself to release the infuriating laces. He straightened, rolling his shoulders and neck, tendons popping like dried corn left too close to a fire.

“A hot bath and some oils to rid me of the cursed bayou’s scent, please, Guillaume.”

The spell holding the man broke, relief slackening his features at being assigned a task that would get him out of this room. He marched out the door on shaky legs, back ramrod straight as if he were held up by his sense of duty alone.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Julien fumbled for his sword, pitching off the bed and landing in an unceremonious tangle of limbs and cloth on the floor. With a savage sawing motion, he sliced the pants from his body, reveling in peculiar glee as his boot laces received the same execution. Thin beads of blood welled from the cuts left by his enthusiastic application of the blade, but it didn’t matter.
I am victorious.

“An interesting way to undress.”

Adrenaline burned through Julien’s veins like an echo of the cayenne, his sword slicing through the air with practiced ease, pointed tip aimed at the source of the voice. A few yards away, a man stood in the corner of his bedroom, calm eyes peering at him like twin orbs of obsidian set in a face the color of red clay. Long black hair hung in a braid absent of all decoration. Likewise, the youth’s clothing was simple, sewn together from animal pelts and a belt that held a hunting knife.

There was nothing exceptional about the weapon, no ornamentation or etchings or anything that marked it as anything more than a hunting knife. The blade was long and wide, the well-worn handle a testament to its frequent use. The man remained still, body held casually without apparent trepidation or malicious intent. To the casual observer, there was absolutely nothing about him that warranted the sword currently held toward his chest.

However, Julien was not just a casual observer.

Raw energy writhed beneath his skin, belying his calm façade. Something primal that made the hairs on the back of Julien’s neck stand up. A crackling aura emanating from the stranger brought to mind sharp points and rivulets of blood. It was difficult to tell if that strange energy was the result of some malevolent hidden agenda—or a remnant of the ordeal that had left him with a patch of thick scars the size of a man’s palm on his chest.

Julien lowered his sword. “Who are you?”

“I am Tenoch.”

The accent along with the color of the man’s skin clicked, the cadence uneasily familiar.

“You are from the Kingdom of Mu.”

“I am.”

Still no emotion touched the man’s face, or warmed his voice. He stood there for all the world like a living statue, only a step above cold stone or clay. A chill ran down Julien’s spine. He knew sailors who refused to port in that kingdom for fear the rumors of flesh-eating land were true. Many of them swore they could hear the drums of bloody rituals and the screams of human sacrifices as they sailed past its barren peninsula.

He itched to raise his sword again, but kept the blade firmly at his side. “How did you get in here?”

“You were having violent thoughts. It made a convenient entry point from the astral plane.”

“The astral…” He shifted back a step, sharp vision straining to catch some sign of a gateway, senses straining to detect residual magic.

Tenoch eyed what was left of the wet pants and ruined boots. “Though I admit, I would not have guessed the violent intentions were aimed at your attire.”

He scowled. “I am not by nature a violent man, but you must believe me—the pants had it coming. And the laces.”

A slow smile lifted the corner of Tenoch’s mouth. “Well then, there was nothing else for it, I suppose.”

That tiny change in expression rippled out, softening Tenoch’s features, curbing the edge of the aura that had seemed so sharp a moment ago. Julien found himself returning the smile, tension melting from the fingers wrapped around the blade’s hilt. “Indeed.”

A brief, firm knock at the door was the only warning they got before it swung open. A trio of men dressed in pressed midnight blue uniforms entered the room, each of them carrying two large buckets of steaming water. The third man, who had put one of his buckets down in order to knock on the door, frowned at the destroyed pants and boots lying just within his line of sight. As he trailed after his companions, his gaze flicked from Julien’s naked form to Tenoch’s semi-naked form. Obvious questions burned in his deep brown eyes, but like his fellows, he didn’t comment. They emptied the buckets into the wooden tub set against the wall between the men and exited just as promptly.

Julien gripped the tub’s edge and tested the water. “So what brings you to my humble abode?”

Tenoch stared at the steam wafting up from the bath, dark eyes sharpening as if he could see something in the formless vapor that Julien could not. “I was asked to come here by the Black God. To see you, speak with you.”

The hairs lining the nape of his neck lifted. The Black God. The Black God sent a resident of the astral plane here, into his home, to speak with him. Ghostly feathers prickled his arms, and he curled aching fingers around the wood like it would ebb the sensation of sharp talons beneath his skin.

I’ve drawn the gods’ ire. They are angry because I’ve abandoned the ways of my kind, refused to enter the service of a magic user, to bond. 

He shut those thoughts down before they could evolve into a nightmare.
I will not serve.
I will not serve.
I will not serve.
The mantra repeated over and over in his mind as he straightened and narrowed the distance between him and his visitor from Mu. “Sent for what purpose?” His voice sounded rougher than he’d intended, but it didn’t break, didn’t waver, and for that he was grateful. “What does your god want with me?”

“Nothing yet.” Tenoch side-stepped him and crept closer to the tub, poking at the rising steam with the tip of his slender finger.  “From what I’ve gathered, they are interested only in men and women in mated pairs.”