“Give me the keys, Papa.” Brigette holds out her hand. “I’ll throw him into the mortal world myself.”
No one has groaned as much as her.
I rise to my feet, preparing to aim my fury at her. She might be Goddess of the Fade, or a goddess of death as per the mortal belief, but her power does not equal mine in this pantheon—
“I call you to me, long lost Remy. I call you to me, long lost Remy.”
“What the fuck?” I shout into the quiet shock of the room.
The other two loas stare at me in response.
Brigitte is as surprised as I am.
Legba? He’s fucking all-knowing. At least I believe he is. Nothing ever surprises him.
Which also means he knows how the hell that human knows my name!
I materialize in front of him. The wind from my movement makes his braids sway lightly along his face. “How does she know my name?”
“That is why you must go. This human’s ability is intriguing. Her nosiness even more so.”
“You know everything. Don’t try and fool me. How does she know it?”
He curls his lips downwards in what I’m sure he hopes is a clueless expression. “If I knew, I wouldn’t demand that you go. Now leave.” He flicks two fingers toward the doors of my chambers.
And by his will alone, I’m propelled straight out of the realm and sent careening toward the mortal one.
As I said, he’s given me a long leash, much to the rage of the fellow Guéde, but every once in a while he likes to remind me who is in charge of our godly family.
I reform in an open field, feet touching down on moist grass. Almost instantly, the woman’s chanting becomes a deafening pressure that bears down on me from every side.
“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.
Blood, and rum, I offer to thee, my essence, my life, to alter, to feed.”
Oh, I’m going to “alter” her alright. When I’m done with her, she’ll be forever changed.
Punished for her insolence in ways that will ruin her fragile, mortal mind.
“I call you to me, long lost Remy.
I call you to me, long lost Remy.”
Hissing under my breath, I flash in the direction her voice is coming from. I’m on the grounds of one of the many plantations that dot La Louisiane.
Or, Louisiana, as the Americans now call it.
Four years after I died, that coward Bonaparte sold the region to the American government, ending French control over this land.
Not that I normally care. I was born half-French, half-Native, and I loathed the first half of myself.
It’s not like my French father ever gave me a reason to feel warm and cuddly toward him or my ancestry. My resentment of Napoleon’s choices have to do with his character in general.
Loathsome man.
And it’s nothing compared to my irritation as I appear deep in the swamp that surrounds the property. Ahead of me, within a clearing surrounded by cypress trees, candlelights blaze.
Her voice isn’t just calling me within my mind. This close, it invades my ears, although I can’t see the shameless woman who dares utter them.
That dares to utter my real name.
My mother died ten years ago. I had to dig her grave myself. She was the last person to know Remy.
To use that name.
Until this insolent girl.
I glide on silent, bare feet toward the circle of trees. As I get closer, the woman’s chants begin to lose steam, as if exhaustion has finally sunk in.
Maybe it’s hopelessness. She probably believes I’m not coming.
Foolish child. It’s too late for her. I’m here.
I walk around the thickest tree.
Long, dark braids fall down her back. She’s kneeling, facing away from me, dark skin slick with the sweat of her exertions.
Her shoulders are perfectly round and defined. Too muscular for her sex, yet they remain feminine and small. The muscles of her back flex as she rocks back and forth, aiming all of her intentions toward bringing me here.
The candles around her flare every time she speaks.
Sheer energy trickles through the air.
I’ve been present for many ceremonies. Many of them were performed by fully initiated Voodoo priests.
None have displayed this level of ability.
This is borderline immortal.
Did I call her insolent? I take that back. She is brutally disrespectful.
And disgustingly fascinating.
She collapses forward onto her hands, back heaving.
It only took her a few hours of non-stop calling to me.
The scent of her reaches me, even from the distance, and it’s intermingled with the smell of her blood.
She must’ve sliced open a hand and let it bleed onto the makeshift altar before her.
There’s a full glass of rum there, as well.
And the bottle off to her left. My eyes widen at the label and the year on it.
This audacious fool. I have no doubt she’s one of the slaves of the plantation, and she dares to steal something of such value from her owner.
All to help her entice me here.
Voice trembling, she forces out one more line. “I call you to me, long lost Remy. I call you to me.”
“Well, I’m fucking here,” I grouse, purposely letting my power warp my voice until it’s echoing and raspy. “And you’re going to explain to me how the hell you learned that name.”
Breath catching in her throat, she whirls around and falls onto her ass.
I’m no longer a mortal man, and as such I should have more self-control, but I’m ashamed to admit that my eyes drop immediately to her chest.
She’s wearing a white, soft sheath and her large breasts jiggle from her movements.
A pitiful, small sound leaves her at the sight of me.
It brings my gaze up to hers and—
And—
Every single thought in my head disappears.
Common sense dies in a fiery, awful wave.
My throat goes dry, the ground feels suddenly unstable beneath my feet, and I’m reduced to a useless fool at my first sight of her face.
As I’ll always be, every single damn time, from here on out.
Chapter Two
Her dark eyes, only a shade lighter than her luscious skin, study me, and I know what she sees.
The angular face with the skull tattoo, shaded by the brim of my top hat.
The glowing gray eyes surrounded by black.
My chest, also covered in skeletal markings, bared by my white open dress shirt, and black silk vest.
I have the decency to wear dress pants, at least, but I gave up on the idea of shoes a while ago.
All the more to spit in the face of my predecessor and the image he so carefully cultivated.
My feet, like every inch of me, including my hands, are also marked with those insufferable tattoos that I can’t get rid of no matter how much I try.
“How do you know that name?” I ask her again, fighting to rip my stare away from her face.
That white sheath she’s wearing has crawled up her thighs. My body is fully engaged with her, blood roaring with hunger, and at this point I’d normally be seizing a female up for a good fucking.
Instead, I’m hypnotized by that face.
Her lips are lush, perfect.
The marks on my dick are different than the ones on my body. Dark, thick tribal lines that bisect the length of it.