Chapter Eighteen

His words weren’t really a statement but a question. I wasn’t sure how to answer them.

I didn’t need to as, moments later, his steady, deep breaths revealed he’d fallen asleep, even before his fingers went lax in mine. I rolled to the side, staring at the ceiling as I rubbed my thumb across his palm.

Didn’t everyone always want it to be love?

I had. But I’d never thought I’d meet a man who’d agree. Until I’d met him.

Everything had moved so fast, suspiciously so. I wasn’t comfortable with my feelings for John Rodolfo, or his apparent feelings for me.

Slowly I inched from the bed and retrieved the gris-gris I’d tossed onto the bathroom sink before I’d headed to the police station. I remembered King’s words. Could be p rotection, a curse, or even a love charm.

“Love charm,” I murmured, squeezing it.

John moaned in his sleep; his head thrashed back and forth.

“Shh,” I whispered, gazing at the gray light of dawn through the window.

I could really use some coffee.

“What do you know about gris-gris?”

Maggie glanced up from the espresso machine where she was frothing milk for what appeared to be a cappuccino. The well-dressed businessman at the counter ignored both of us as he took the cup and tossed a dollar into the tip j ar.

“Pretty much,” she said cheerfully. “You want anything?”

I glanced at the chalkboard menu, brightening at what I saw there. “A large Jamaican Blue Mountain.”

I loved that stuff. Might be expensive but worth every penny.

Maggie poured my coffee, then got some of her own—a cheaper blend—and j oined me at the nearest table. “What do you want to know about gris-gris?”

“They’re charms?”

“Right.”

“What does ‘gris-gris’ mean?”

“The term itself comes from the French for ‘gray’ and refers to the black and white nature of the magic.”

“They’re magic?”

She smiled indulgently. “What is it about ‘charm’ that you don’t understand?”

“The part where a bag of stuff is magic.”

“It’s not what’s inside that counts so much as the power of the one who prepares the gris-gris, combined with a strong belief in them.”

“Do you know how to make one?” I asked.

“I know what goes into the most popular ones, but I can’t make them. I’m not ordained.”

“You could make one. You’re not physically incapable.”

“No. But like I said, the power comes from the belief and the magic, which comes from the houngan or mambo who makes it. I’m not one.”

“Could a sorcerer—a…” I waved my hand for the word.

“Bokor?”

“Yes. Could he or she make a gris-gris?”

“Sure. Although bokors are more apt to make an ouanga.”

“Which is?”

“A black-magic charm, sometimes a potion. The bokor will perform a travail—a ceremony to channel the negative supernatural forces of the loas directly into the charm.”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the small bag. “What’s this?”

Maggie stared at it warily. “I doubt it’s a ouanga.”

“Because?”

“You only have to touch them to become ill.”

I dropped the thing onto the table, and she laughed. “Relax. Ouangas aren’t very powerful.”

“Because?” I repeated.

“Because good is stronger than evil.”

She was so young.

“Is it a gris-gris?” I asked.

“Yes.” She reached for the bag, hesitating before touching it. “You mind?”

“Go ahead. I’d like to know what it’s for.”

She released the small string tied around the opening and poured the contents into her palm—a gray concoction spotted with particles of red and purple.

“Is it a love charm?” I asked.

“Oh, no. A love charm is made of sweetness—orange flower water, rose water, or sugar and the hair of the loved one.”

I lifted my hand to my head and her eyes danced. “Underarm hair or pubic hair is most common.”

I wrinkled my nose and she laughed at the expression before continuing. “This is…” Her voice trailed off as she leaned forward and took a sniff before I could warn her. She sneezed, violently, several times.

“Pepper?”

“I thought so too, but not black pepper.”

“No. Something red.” Her face took on a faraway expression. “I know this.”

Maggie got up and went behind the counter, snatching the register key, then a card for one of the computers. “Come on.”

I followed her into the Internet section of the cafe, where she tapped at a keyboard, then began to surf.

I’d nearly finished my huge cup of coffee before she said, “Here we go. The combination of ashes from an outdoor flame and red pepper is a charm against beasts of the swamp.”

“But I’m not in the swamp.”

“Honey, this whole city is a swamp; you just showed up during the dry season.”

“I see the ashes and the red pepper, but what made it purple?”

Maggie tapped at the computer a few more times then gave a low whistle. “Maybe I was wrong about this not being a ounga.”

I moved closer, uneasy. “Why?”

“The texture of the purple bits, the slightly musty scent—I’m pretty sure it’s monkshood.” She glanced at me. “Wolfsbane.”

“That’s poisonous.”

“Only if ingested.”

“What does it do?”

“The addition of monkshood will fortify an everyday charm against earthbound beasts into a charm against a supernatural monster.” She glanced over her shoulder. “A loup-garou.”

My skin suddenly felt prickly, itchy, too small for my body. The word was far too familiar.

“Lougaro? Didn’t we already go here?”

“No. A lougaro is a voodoo shapeshifter, a sorcerer who can shift into pretty much any animal he wants to. A loup-garou is a French werewolf.”

“My head hurts,” I muttered.

“There’s a legend.” She paused, then glanced around the cafe uneasily before continuing. “A legend of New Orleans, passed down only to those who believe.”

“It’s a secret?”

“An oral tradition.”

After last night, I was thinking of starting my own oral tradition. I yanked my mind away from the image of John Rodolfo naked in my bed. I had work to do.

“This story isn’t written down anywhere?” I asked.

“From what I was told, anyone who’s tried to do so has wound up dead.”

An involuntary bark of laughter escaped. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Tell it to the dead people.”

“Maggie, you really believe that?”

“Well, let’s just say I ’m not going to write it down.”

“But you are going to tell me about it?”

She glanced around again, then began. “Over a hundred years ago a man was cursed to run as a wolf beneath the crescent moon.”

I started, remembering the thin, smiling crescent moon that had risen last night. Coincidence? Not if I believed Maggie’s theory that there were none.

“Don’t werewolves come out under the full moon?”

“A loup-garou is different. According to the legend, a loup-garou is cursed, not bitten.”

“Then that whole thing about werewolves making other werewolves by biting them is true?” Or as true as a superstition gets.

“So I hear.”

“Why was this man cursed?”

“Slave owner. One of his possessions placed a voodoo curse on him. Can’t say that I blame her.”

I couldn’t either.

“How did she manage it?”

“Voodoo queen. They aren’t anyone you want to screw with.”

I’d take her word on it.

“So this voodoo queen cursed the man to become a werewolf under the crescent moon?”

I couldn’t believe I was having this conversation, but I had asked.

“So the legend says.”

“What’s the difference between a werewolf and a loup-garou?”

“They can both be killed with silver, but werewolves are compelled to shift and to kill beneath the full moon—one night only—although I’ve heard they can transform any night if they choose. However, the loup-garou must shift and kill beneath the crescent moon, which arrives twice during a lunar cycle—both waning and waxing—and each crescent lasts several days.”

Which meant a loup-garou would be under the control of the moon much longer than most. The curse was very clever, ensuring the former slave owner was subj ect to something he could not control, which was only what he deserved. Unfortunately, because of it, other people had suffered.

If I believed in curses, which I didn’t any more than I believed in werewolves of any flavor. Still, I couldn’t help but be curious.

“You said the woman who performed the curse was a voodoo queen.”

“Right.”

“But you called Cassandra a priestess. What’s the difference?”

“New Orleans voodoo has always been more about the magic and the mystery than the religion, so most of the leaders have been referred to as queens or kings, with the queens being more powerful. In Haiti, the leaders are referred to as houngans and mambos, or priests and priestesses, to reflect their emphasis on voodoo as a religion.”

Made sense.

“But if this voodoo queen performed a curse, doesn’t that make her a bokor?”

Maggie smiled. “In a way. Every voodoo practitioner knows both the good and the bad. Voodoo is about balance—in the universe, the community, the soul. Only someone who knows and understands evil would have any hope of thwarting it. Each initiate to the priesthood studies black magic; they just swear never to use it.”

“But she did.”

“I’m sure she had a good reason.”

I was sure she’d had plenty of them.

“How does one go about placing a curse?” I asked.

“The person doing the cursing would call on the loas for help. Each loa has a light and a dark side, rada and p etro. To call the dark side requires blood, usually a large animal, maybe a pig.”

My eyes widened. Why did pigs keep cropping up?

The question was shoved from my mind as I had another, much more unpleasant idea. “What about human sacrifice?”

Maggie shook her head. “The movies and books have demonized voodoo with the idea that we perform human sacrifice, but we don’t. Voodoo is a religion of love and peace.”

“I bet the sacrificial pig doesn’t feel too loved.”

“Neither does your pork chop, but that doesn’t stop you from eating it.”

Good p oint.

Still, what if someone was taking the Hollywood version of voodoo for the truth and sacrificing people all over town? Maggie had said that voodoo rituals were best performed under the full moon. The idea was something to ponder, and perhaps share with Sullivan.

“You said there are many loas. Would a particular one be called on for cursing?”

Maggie tapped the computer again. “Baron Samedi is a Gede, a spirit of death. Neither a rada nor a p etro spirit, the Gede are separate. They rule the realm of the dead. To curse someone to become a werewolf, you’d probably call on the Baron. He’s the most powerful Gede and controls shapeshifting and the reanimation of corpses.”

“Zombies?”

“Yes.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I moved on. “You think this voodoo queen called on Baron Samedi?”

“It would make the most sense. Although some might call on a loa they have a particular affinity with.

Voodoo’s kind of fluid. People make a lot up as they go along. Whatever works.” Maggie fiddled with the computer again. “Here’s Baron Samedi.”

I moved in for a closer glimpse of the drawing that had sprung up on the screen. The man wore a frock coat, top hat, and sunglasses. He carried a walking stick in one hand and a long, thin, dark cigarette in the other.

Maggie tapped the cigarette. “The Gede are often pictured with tobacco, which is their particular favorite. They’re the only loa completely indigenous to Haiti, with no corresponding African tribal spirit.”

“I thought voodoo originated in Haiti.”

“Not really. Slaves from every African society were brought there. Each one contributed pieces of their religion to a new one, which became voodoo. They also adopted some of the practices of Catholicism, which they were forced to accept right off the boat, along with the rest.”

Something about the picture of Baron Samedi was so familiar. Which made no sense since the Gede wasn’t real—or at least corporeal. Nevertheless…

If I took away the frock coat and the top hat, which were out of date anyway, that left sunglasses, a walking stick, and that foreign cigarette.

“Rodolfo,” I muttered.

“Who?”

“My boss.” I shrugged. “Never mind. It’s just—” I pointed at the screen. “He kind of looks like that.”

“Weird.” Maggie glanced from the computer to me, and then back again, frowning.

“What’s weird?”

“Rodolfo means ‘wolf’.”