The smile on his face during the entire process is even more heinous.
However ancient he was, those eons of time consume him in minutes, disintegrating everything he once was.
As soon as he’s gone, I can’t contain myself anymore. I turn to finally stare at the body left in the grave.
Remy, no last name, illegitimate son of an aristocratic lord and his enslaved Indian mistress.
I did nothing in my life but survive.
For some reason, I have a feeling that isn’t going to change.
I raise my hand, staring at the round glasses.
A mistake.
In the obsidian lenses, I see my reflection.
It’s my face, but covered in skull paint. The angular features are sharper thanks to the contrast.
My eyes are surrounded by either black paint or black skin. I don’t have the courage to try and find out which one it is. The shape remains the same, but instead of brown—or yellow, as Baron’s were—they’re a shocking, haunting light gray that glows like the moon above.
I drop my hand, fist clenched around the glasses.
There’s a shuffling noise off in the distance. I look up, searching the fog that covers the bayou.
One at a time, I see them emerge—the other loas that are dressed as Baron.
As me.
It’s an army of them, led by five distinct figures.
The Guédé.
I have a passing thought that they’re here to welcome me.
I could not be more wrong.
Baron chose a successor; they aren’t obliged to accept it.
They’re here to make me, the lowborn son of a slave, earn it.
Over the next two decades, I’ll do just that.
As I will learn soon, it’s either that or a fate truly worse than death. Maybe I didn’t have any ambitions as a human, but soon I’ll have that and so much more.
On a Saturday morning, July 20th, 1799, I died.
One week later, on a Saturday night, I was buried in an unmarked grave.
On that night, I arose to become a god.
Twenty years later, on a Saturday night, I’m going to die again.
I just won’t know it until it’s too late.
Chapter One
Saturday, August 3rd, 1819
“I call you to me, Baron Samedi. I call you to me, heed my impassioned plea. I call you to me. I call you to me.”
Yes, well, I have no plans of listening.
I hardly ever do.
My predecessor, the previous Baron, was known for answering prayers, pleas, questions and the like.
Things have changed in the last two decades. I thought the worshippers had begun to catch on.
“Blood, and rum, I offer to thee, my essence, my life, to alter, to feed,” the woman continues in Creole, and holy fuck is she loud.
Insistent.
This has been going on for hours so far, and she hasn’t eased up one bit.
I flick the ash off the tip of my cigar and bring it back to my mouth. Taking a deep pull, I lean my head back against my gold highback chair and close my eyes. I’ve only been doing this for twenty-years, yet I have become adept at blocking the endless noise that the faithful make.
They always want something from me.
Always.
This woman, whoever she is, with her sensual voice, ignites a tiny spark of intrigue, but not enough to drag me from this realm.
Guinee, the Voodoo spirit world of the gods, also turned out to be real, and I only leave it when it’s absolutely necessary for me to dig a grave.
And I barely even do that. I send minions to handle that task.
I didn’t choose this life. It was foisted upon me. I feel no obligation to the duties of my predecessor.
“Blood, and rum, I offer to thee, my essence, my life, to alter, to feed.”
There’s a stirring within me, one I haven’t felt in a long time. Like the previous Baron, I have no issue partaking in the physical “offerings” the faithful women make. Not always, but every once in a while it gets a little wild.
The unknown woman with the seductive voice increases her chanting, and the fervor—the desperation—in her tone makes me peak one eye open.
Only to find Papa standing directly in front of me.
My nostrils flare with a sharp inhale. It’s the only reaction I give him; he smiles down at me, enjoying it. I haven’t been scared in a long time, yet he always manages to send a jolt of unease through me. “What are you doing here, Legba?”
“Samedi, Samedi,” he sings in his taunting tone, and holds up his massive set of gold keys. Jingling them next to his gray-painted face, he smiles wider, showing off his stained teeth. “I’m opening the gate.”
“What the fuck for?” I snap at him, just as the doors behind him slam open and the most infuriating red-head in all of existence storms in.
“Yes, please. Open the fucking gates and shove him through. Make that incessant noise stop!” The female known as Maman Brigitte—a filthy liar if I ever met one—struts through my chambers, her fully-gray, deadened eyes narrowed. The large, silvery halo highlighting the back of her head seems brighter than usual.
So do the silver, glittering trail of tears that forever marr her cheeks.
An attractive representation of how fucking miserable she always is. No wonder my precursor was willing to give up immortality to escape her.
Wait . . . She can hear that woman chanting?
Of course Papa can. He’s the gatekeeper between this world and the mortal one. He’s the one that decides what comes in or goes out.
Yet she’s hearing that woman and that can only mean one thing:
That mortal calling for me is powerful.
For her kind.
I still don’t understand why Legba wants me to go to her. “She’ll stop eventually. You’ll see.”
“Ugh. He is fucking lazy. It is shameful. My ex-husband was worse—both my ex-husbands, actually—but this one is vile.”
“I am not one of your husbands, thank Bondye.” And you are not Maman Brigette! I want to shout at this imposter.
Well, she is. In the sense that she entered this pantheon, renamed herself, and created a following among ancient mortals.
But she was someone else before that.
She continues to be that someone now, no matter how many fake names she hides behind.
I’ve only been around for twenty-years, yet I have learned almost all the secrets of this family. Even if I can’t voice them aloud—some unbreakable force keeps me silent.
I can’t even think her original name. As if it’s been condemned in some way. The mortals know of her, a twisted version of her original story, but among us, her name is banished.
Unspeakable.
Unthinkable.
What matters is I know her true form. She’s Greek. Was once the wife of—
“I call you to me, Baron Samedi. I call you to me, heed my impassioned plea. I call you to me. I call you to me.”
Legba’s affable expression drops and he stares down at me with the full weight of his commanding presence. “You’re going to her, boy. Power like hers cannot be denied.”
“I’m not interested in making deals with any humans,” I enunciate slowly.
“Power like hers cannot be denied,” he repeats in a hard, deadened tone.
He’s given me a long leash. Has allowed me to reshape many traditions in the time since I inherited this curse. Even despite the moaning and groaning of the rest of our family.