Healing the Bayou (2 page)

Beyond her a crowd of people were dressed in white as well, all looking at me with such intensity that their gazes burned straight through me.

The girl held out a golden chalice decorated with rubies and sapphires and motioned it in my direction, beckoning me to drink from it.

The last thing that I could remember was leaving the church after Mom and Dad’s funeral. I peered past the crowd to try to figure out where these people had taken me.

The ground was laid out with headstones, and a gate caged us in. In the distance I could make out a community sign about a cemetery, but I was more distracted by the tree next to it.

It was a grand oak tree towering over the rest of the modest shrubbery that littered the area. A natural face-like formation was eerily grown into its center, and its eyes were ablaze. A foreboding chill ran down my spine, but I still could not tear my gaze away from it.

Again the girl issued a musical laugh with the grace of a bell.

“Where am I?” The words left my lips so faintly I hardly heard them myself.

“Eliza!” The girl wrinkled her nose. “Are you all right?” She smiled sweetly, her white teeth seeming to glow in the darkness. “Take a drink. You’ll feel better.”

I eyed her. I should be afraid, so why wasn’t I? Here I was in the middle of a cemetery encircled by a group of people I don’t know, and this girl wanted me to blindly drink from a cup that looked as though taken straight from the books of the bible.

Slowly flashes of recollection infiltrated my thoughts, but most of them disappeared again as soon as they came.
Camille. Her name is Camille.

She must have sensed my worry, because her smile faded and she furrowed her brows. “I’ll show you.” She brought the cup to her lips and drank, proving to me there was nothing to fear before she again held it out for me to take.

I tried to reason myself into refusing—I was a psychology major after all. So I was completely aware of how ludicrous it was for me to even consider taking it. This was probably some suicidal cult who for some reason found me to be the sign of their much-anticipated end.

I moved my gaze from the extended cup back to Camille’s face. A trail of crimson dribbled down her chin, and I licked my lips in response. Suddenly I could smell the minerals in the blood that filled the cup and my stomach burned with need for the liquid inside the cup. I closed my eyes and breathed in the odor. Why the hell wasn’t I even remotely disgusted?

A primal desire for the taste took over, and before I could stop myself I reached out, took the chalice from her hands and greedily drank in the liquid of life. Each sip gave me more satisfaction than the last, and a warm vibration came over my body. This stranger was right—I was instantly stronger and more alive than I had ever felt in my twenty-four years. This feeling was dangerously intoxicating. I let out a whimper as the elixir was torn from my lips.

“Not so much. You need to be filled but not full,” Camille told me.

“It’s delicious.”

She looked at me, confused. “It is the blood from the goat you sacrificed.”

She gestured in the direction of an altar across the cemetery where a young male goat laid lifeless, blood dripping from his neck.

“I sacrificed him?” I shook my head and tried to dig into my memory but came up with nothing.

“Eliza, are you all right?” She frowned.

I wiped the fluid that had trickled onto my own chin, and a drop hit my chest. I looked down to clean it, and for the first time I noticed I was completely naked. Instinctively I covered my body with my arms, and my cheeks burned hot. All these people had been staring at my naked, not-quite-as-impressive-as-Camille’s figure.

Camille gasped and looked as if I had just insulted her. “You shouldn’t be ashamed of the body of a goddess, Eliza!” She pulled my arms back to my side.

I let out a snort. Who was she kidding? I crossed my legs to hide my womanhood, brought my long, coal-black hair over my shoulders to cover my breasts, and sighed inwardly as I imagined the sight of myself.

“Could I please have some clothes? I’m not embarrassed,” I lied. “I’m just cold.”

“Oh! Yes, of course. Usually we would wait a bit before you wore the ceremonial dressings, but we don’t need our priestess getting sick. Samuel! Bring the Queen’s clothing. She is cold.”

She was talking to someone behind me, and I turned to see who it was. There was no one there, and I began to worry that her imaginary friend would be bringing me imaginary clothes. My amusement with myself was short-lived—my stomach burned all of a sudden. As the girl in front of me started to sway and blur I blinked hard. A force dug into my back, and pain surged through my body. Screaming as if my soul were on fire, I grew so dizzy that I dropped to my knees, completely helpless.

Oh God, they drugged me!

Panic was setting in, and I strained my neck to look up at Camille, who watched me in horror. She’d drank the blood too, so why wasn’t she ill? She must have just pretended to drink it.

I shifted from fearful to angered by the betrayal. But recognizing how silly it was to feel betrayed by a complete stranger, I redirected the emotion back to myself. How could I be so stupid? I knew better! But something had taken over—I wasn’t myself. Something had made me drink it.

“Samuel, your gloves!” Camille hissed.

The pressure ceased at once. While the pain still lingered, it was much more bearable and I could breathe again. Relief washed over me and I collapsed forward. A cold sweat drenched my body. I took slow, exaggerated breaths in and out through clenched teeth, meditating to recover.

Camille removed the scarf she wore and wrapped both of her hands in the edges as she knelt next to me. She took my chin in her covered hand and lifted it to look at her.

“Forgive him, Eliza. He is just nervous. It’s his first time too.” She offered a reassuring smile before she snapped a fiery gaze to someone who stood behind me. “She’ll need to be washed again. You’ve tainted her.”

I stretched my stiff back, and Camille helped me to my feet. Damn it, I’m so sore! I had dealt with the pain that came with the touch of others my entire life, but it had never been this harsh before. My body was hurting as if I had gone ten rounds with a professional boxer, and it took all my energy to turn and face my assailant.

My jaw dropped at the rugged man that pillared over me. My five-feet-nothing frame shrank even smaller in comparison to Samuel’s easily six-feet-five, tanned, muscular mountain of a body. He wore tight-fitting black pants with a matching black silk shirt held together by only the two bottom buttons, revealing just a glimpse of his perfectly toned chest.

My breathing quickened while I watched him put on a pair of black gloves. His face was the strongest example of masculine, and his bright green eyes pierced though my soul so deeply I had to force myself to look away. The way he looked at me, I swore he could read the X-rated thoughts involuntarily swimming through my mind.

“Why do I need to be cleaned?” I looked to Camille for an explanation.

“You cannot commune with the Almighty with anything less than complete purity.”

“I don’t understand. Who is the Almighty?”

“Damballah, silly! He is waiting to see you!” For only a moment her youth peeked out from behind her shadowy rouse of authority, but she quickly remembered herself.

“Samuel,” she commanded, “take Eliza to the hounfour. Bring the shroud and dress her once she is again proper.”

I glanced sheepishly at Samuel before protesting. “I can dress myself.”

“No,” she insisted. “Your hands cannot touch the ceremonial clothing. He will not hurt you, honestly.”

I didn’t have any time to further object before Samuel lifted my unclothed body into his arms and cradled me, carrying me into a nearby crypt. A man followed us with a torch, grinning from ear to ear; he was either amused or excited, I couldn’t tell which. Once we were inside he set the light source into a sconce and left us alone.

The interior of the small building was even creepier than the outside. Maybe it was just the light from the flames flickering off the walls, but in the corner of my eye there were dark shadows dancing about the room. They disappeared when I turned to find them, so I dismissed the suspicion. The concrete walls were covered in cobwebs and when he set me down onto a stone bench, an imaginary sensation of insects crawling over my body took over. I shivered.

On the far wall were various works of art carved into the stone. I leaned in closer to one to examine the intricate depiction of a woman dressed decoratively with something illuminating from her hands as she stood over a fallen child. Above this detailed carving was written only one word: Laveau.

Samuel walked to the center of the crypt, where there was a well of water in place of what I imagined to be the place where a coffin should have rested. He removed his glove from one hand and dipped his fingers into the well. When he looked up at me an almost boyish smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“It’s still warm from earlier. Come sit next to me.”

His gaze pulled me to my feet, and I stood without thought of resisting. He held out his gloved hand. I gave him mine, locked into his trance-summoning gaze. Even through his glove a buzz of energy seeped through the fabric.

“Let me know if I hurt you,” he said gently.

He took my arm and washed it with a wet cloth separating his unsheathed hand from my skin. Thinking back to the excruciating pain that came when he’d touched me the first time, I instinctively jerked away.

He must have a blackened soul. Only a blackened soul could explain the severity of the reaction his contact caused.

“I can wash myself,” I snapped without meaning to sound so harsh.

“Of course you can.” He looked at me like a wounded lamb with sad eyes and a deep frown.

“I’m sorry. It’s just a little embarrassing,” I explained.

“It’s just part of the ritual, Eliza. There is nothing to be embarrassed of. It is the highest honor a priestess can have to commune with Damballah.” I could tell by his expression that what he’d said was meant to be comforting. Damballah was clearly a source of great peace for him and the others.

“Will it dishonor your tradition if I wash myself?”

“Technically, it would just be a break in tradition, I think, but we can keep it between us. I will have to dress you though. That is an imperative part of the ritual.”

I nodded in agreement and took the damp cloth from him.

He watched me intently as I scrubbed my arms and neck. I was mildly disappointed when he respectfully looked away once I reached my breasts, but I was also relieved.

This could easily have been the opening scene to a bad porno film, and I was a little peeved at myself knowing I wouldn’t have been able to resist his advances if it had gone that direction—he was a stranger for crying out loud!

I quickly finished my thorough rinse in silence and stood to be clothed, making no effort to hide the humiliation on my face. Samuel chuckled as he removed the one remaining glove from his hand.

“I’m sorry it’s such a displeasure to expose yourself to me,” he teased.

“It might make me more comfortable if you were exposed too.” I slapped my hand over my mouth and let out an explosive laugh. “I’m so sorry!”

He shook his head in amusement, then lifted the dress over my head and brought it down my body, being thoughtful not to touch me directly.

“You only meant to think it.”

“How did you know what I was going to say?”

“It seemed obvious.” He shrugged.

I wiggled into the white, form-fitting, floor-length dress, waiting for a reaction. “Well, it’s a little Marilyn Monroe for my taste,” I said when I got none.

“Marilyn Monroe was a beautiful woman.” He leaned his face close to mine and smiled. “But she doesn’t even begin to compare to you, Eliza.”

My knees went weak, and I blushed at the compliment. Usually I would come back with a sarcastic brush-off when a man said such things, but coming from him I almost believed it. I brought my hands onto his chest, leaning into him as I closed my eyes to drink in the feeling of warm energy escaping through his shirt.

I raised my gaze to meet his, and he lowered his lips, stopping just short of mine. My heartbeat skipped at the static almost visible between our bodies. I ached to reach up and pull his onto lips to mine.

“It is quite fitting,” he whispered.

“What is?”

“The light and the dark.”

“What?”

“The angel and the demon. Together they should create balance, don’t you think?”

“Hmm. And which one am I?” I asked, trying to sound seductive.

“You’re the devil’s bewitching weakness,” he breathed as he brought his mouth down hard onto mine.

I winced, expecting to feel pain, but instead I was greeted with a delightful surge of blissful, exhilarating vigor. I groaned as I allowed myself to relax into his urgency. He backed me into the wall and tangled his hand into my hair. He used my strands to pull my head back and expose my nape, which he devoured with his kiss.

“What the hell are you doing?” Camille shrieked from the doorway.

Samuel released me and stiffened as if the intrusion made him decide our encounter was a mistake.

“I sent you in here to cleanse her. Not to defile her in the most literal sense! You couldn’t restrain yourself for ten minutes, Samuel?”

“You’re right,” he admitted when he faced her. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“You should be ashamed of yourself!”

“Excuse me,” I shouted, feeling an unwarranted sense of protectiveness for the man. “I was a willing party to this little transaction. He did not defile me!”

Camille sighed and her face regained the deceiving, sweet smile I had already become familiar with.

“Eliza, you don’t understand. Damballah cannot communicate with you—”

“If I’m anything less than pure,” I interrupted. “Anyway, I don’t even know who Damballah is. Why should I care if he will or won’t speak with me?”

Both Samuel and Camille dropped their jaws in shock.

“Eliza,” Samuel said, “he is the only one that can show you.”