Hounacier (Valducan Book 2) (10 page)

A group of teens laughed and cavorted around a bench in the apartment's courtyard. The stink of cheap cigars and pot wafted from their direction. A chunky boy met Malcolm's eye as they passed, his eyes a little too hard for someone so young.

Tasha led him up a flight of stairs to the second floor. "Mal, I was thinking. I don't think that cult you met last year is to blame for Ulises' murder."

"Why's that?"

She stopped before her dented maroon door and turned. "If they were demon worshipers, wouldn't they have taken the mask?"

Malcolm paused. "Maybe they didn't know what it was."

"Do you believe that?"

He chewed his lip. "No."

"Same with that guy you were talking about, the one that was a familiar once," Tasha said, fishing a bulbous key ring from her purse. "Wouldn't he have taken it?"

"Probably," he said. Ghouls couldn't make familiars—not living ones anyway. Still, she had a point. A demon that sent him there, because the mask prevented it from entering itself, would have wanted the ghoul freed or the mask destroyed. Why hadn't he seen this?

She unlocked the door and looked at him, a question in her eyes.

"So what do you think?" he asked.

Tasha cocked her head. "About?"

"Who killed him."

She shook her head and sighed. "I don't know, Mal. I just…I just think it was someone else."

"Like who?"

"I don't know." Tasha opened the door. "But I don't think it was someone who loved demons." She met his eyes, a faint smile at the edge of her lips. Invitation.

Malcolm swallowed, already regretting his next words. "I enjoyed tonight. I have a big day tomorrow."

"I enjoyed it too," she said. If there was disappointment, she hid it well. "It's been too long."

He smiled. "So you think I can get that second date? I promised you burgers."

"Yeah," she chuckled. "You got it."

"Good." He leaned in. She met his lips, soft and tender.

She tugged on his lower lip as she ended the kiss. "Goodnight, Malcolm."

"Night."

Tasha stepped inside and smiled warmly as she closed the door.

Malcolm stood there for a moment after the bolt clicked, old, forgotten emotion welling up as if they'd never left.
Damn it
, he thought, unsure if the curse was for his desires or for his refusal to act on them. Malcolm balled his fist as if to knock on the door. No, he
did
have things to do. He had a gris-gris to finish, a police file to read, and a werebeast to find before it hurt anyone.

The teens paid him no mind as Malcolm passed, headed back to his hotel. Tasha's theory troubled him. If a demon or vengeful cultists hadn't killed Ulises, then who? Maybe Jim was right. What if the killer's intention wasn't based on the old man's past but on the present? If it was some former customer, unhappy with their hex or gris-gris, or even some misguided fool hoping to steal the bokor's power, then where did that leave Malcolm?

A woman screamed. Malcolm spun, instinctively dropping Hounacier's shoulder strap to his hand.

A blonde with tiny, pink shorts squealed a few feet behind him, her arms wrapped around a tall man.

"When did you get here?" the man asked, adjusting his wireframe glasses.

"This morning," she gushed.

Tourists,
Malcolm thought, annoyed. Returning the strap to his shoulder, he turned back around, but not before he spied the two men he'd seen earlier. They were a half block behind him, strolling his direction. His pulse quickened. No way it was chance. Drawing a breath, he continued, trying not to appear that he was on to them.

He turned at the next street, following the noise toward the more populated areas. Malcolm passed a crowded cafe entrance and braved a look behind him. Shorty and Cornrows had fallen back but were still following, not looking his direction. Shorty sucked on a cigarette, watching his feet, while his tall companion peered into his phone. Who was he talking to?

Malcolm hurried across Canal Street and went left, away from his hotel, once he reached the opposite side. Pulling Hounacier's bag to his front, he unzipped the top. After another block, he slowed, allowing his pursuers time to see him before he turned beside a towering building. Near the back, he tucked into a wide, loading garage.

Dim fluorescents flickered above. A pair of giant blue compactors sat along one side. Malcolm ducked into the shadows between them, nearly stepping into a pile of human shit. Trying to ignore the awful stink of refuse and feces, he watched the street outside and waited.

The two men came into view, walking at a quick pace. Malcolm slunk behind the steel bin, holding his breath. He slid his hand into the bag ad gripped the machete tight. Attacking them outright was out of the question. Too many witnesses, and he didn't even know their intentions. They could have guns, something he lacked. If they saw him, he was trapped.

The scarab tattoo didn't move as they passed just eight feet from him. Their footsteps faded. Malcolm waited a count of ten, emerged from his hiding place, and peeked around the corner.

The two men stood at an intersection, scanning up either side. A squarish lump bulged at the back of Shorty's waistband. Pistol. Malcolm tensed, ready to draw back in case they turned toward him. Finally, Cornrows committed to a decision. He nodded and hurried across the street, his small partner at his heels.

Malcolm quietly stepped out and doubled back to Canal. Trying not to run, he hurried four blocks up to his hotel. He looked back, making sure he didn't see his pursuers before he headed inside.

The young man behind the counter didn't even glance up from his computer screen as Malcolm passed and went straight for the elevator. Jaw tight, he watched the front door, impatient for the slow elevator to come. He suppressed the urge to push the already lit button again, as if that helped. Eventually, it dinged, and three seconds later, the metal doors slid apart.

Malcolm pressed 5 and kept his eyes on the front door until the elevator lazily closed. He let out a long, slow breath as it started up. Who were those men? Not demons. Maybe Earl Warren's men, sent to keep an eye on him. Maybe Ulises' killers. If he'd had Orlovski here, they could follow the men, see where they were going. With Sam, they could run a three-point tail, which was preferable. But Orlovski was out of commission for the next year. Sam was with him, and Matt was nowhere near the country yet. He hated working alone. He'd always had Ulises or another knight watching his back. Now, he felt naked. Alone. He was always the hunter, not the target, hiding in dark alleys, wondering who his enemies were.

The elevator stopped at the top floor then waited its customary eternity before finally opening. Malcolm smiled at a middle-aged couple waiting before the door. He took the stairs back down to the third floor, checking that the hall was clear before stepping out.

The "Do Not Disturb" tag still hung from his door. Malcolm scanned the halls, verifying he was alone, then slipped into his room. The room was dark, the only light being the red LCD alarm clock. One hand inside Hounacier's bag, gripping the handle, he flipped the lights.

Empty.

Malcolm checked the closet, the bathroom, and bed. All as he had left it. The unsewn leather pouch and packets of herbs that would become Rochelle Duplessis' gris-gris was still atop the desk. His phone blooped loudly. Checking it, he saw video of himself searching the closet five seconds earlier. The hidden camera was still working. No one had been in his room.

He let out a sigh, finally allowing some of the adrenaline to cool. Releasing his grip on Hounacier, Malcolm reached behind the picture frame and pressed a little button, cutting the feed. He felt under the side chair and peeled the green jump drive from where he'd taped it. Police evidence was nothing he wanted to be caught with, and leaving it out was equally stupid.

Malcolm opened his laptop and jacked the drive in. Hopefully, the Valducans had found something in the files he'd sent them. Regardless, he intended to finish reading them, maybe even continue on that damned gris-gris. He eyed the cheap, single-serving coffee pot resting in the corner. It was going to be a long night.

Chapter Seven

"Beautiful lady, beautiful lady, Filomèz take my gift and bring prosperity." Malcolm kissed the curved needle and looped a single stitch in the leather. Once tight, he looked at the small photograph of Rochelle, lit by the seven candles on the table. He closed his eyes, holding the image of her smiling, round face in his mind. "Beautiful lady, beautiful lady, Filomèz take my gift and bring prosperity." Malcolm made another stitch.

The gris-gris bag was coming along much faster then he'd expected, though he did have a few setbacks along the way. It had taken several attempts before he'd successfully burned the intricate loa's symbol into the light green leather that would face the pouch's interior. The fourth try, he'd managed to sketch the glyph with a red-hot needle without a single mistake. A tight, black coil of Rochelle's hair ran alongside the white cotton thread, making each stitch a part of her. It also had a tendency to kink and break if he wasn't careful. A lazy priest might spread the stitches out, taking a fraction of the time, but Malcolm was a perfectionist. The stitches needed to be tightly spaced to hold the loa's blessing. Ulises' reputation as his mentor was at stake if Malcolm cut corners.

"Beautiful lady, beautiful lady, Filomèz take my gift and bring prosperity."

Malcolm looped the stitch through and rubbed his eyes. Still wired after avoiding his pursuers, and with the power of Hounacier's blessed tattoo, he'd stayed up too late reading the police file. He'd studied over a hundred pictures of the scene. Graphic close-ups of Ulises' headless corpse, the carpet beneath soaked red, and the black ghoul mask leering from the splattered wall above. Malcolm had seen many bodies, even of friends, but was that so much different than seeing the old man like that. Shots of the tattoos they both shared, a deep gash at his shoulder, the camera flash reflecting white off the still-wet blood. No defensive wounds. Ulises had either known his killer or was taken by surprise. The amount of blood suggested it hadn't been quick. He'd suffered there, on the floor of his house, beneath the photos of his adopted son who never called and the trapped ghoul that hated him. Autopsy results would be weeks away. Malcolm doubted the report was priority. The cause of death was easy to guess.

As Duplessis had said, there were a lot of fingerprints, but there were also hairs. On the furniture, in the carpet, and stored in dozens of clay jars around the old man's work area. Unfortunately, DNA tests would also be several weeks. Still, many of the prints came up in the police database. Ulises' home had been a veritable halfway house for New Orleans' worst. Among them, a Mister Marcus Fisher. His photo matched Liz's description perfectly: Mid-thirties, stocky, though the hair in the most recent photo was shaved. Malcolm had his demon-addict. Marcus was familiar with addiction, it appeared. Amphetamines, mostly. He also liked knives. He'd served five years for stabbing a man.

NOPD had already ruled Marcus Fisher out as a suspect. The night before Ulises' murder, Marcus had been found with three grams of meth and a bottle non-prescribed Adderall after he'd robbed a taxi driver—all three being clear violations of his parole. Marcus had been, and still was, in Orleans Parish Prison. OPP was a demonic paradise. Malcolm suspected that Marcus would have little problem finding a new master there. Still, he planned to pay him a visit. Maybe see if Marcus might know anything about Ulises' murder or the mask.

Malcolm set the half-finished pouch down and checked the clock. 2:38.

Shit. AJ.

He quickly put everything away, careful not to damage the drying flowers, grabbed his bags, and headed out.

#

"Police arrived at the scene to find the victims, their throats cut."

A short, teal bus sat out front of AJ's shop, its roof sawn off like it had been sliced with an industrial laser. A man in a ridiculous pirate getup stood at the front, recounting the gruesome tale of a long-dead murderer who had once stalked the streets. What truth the story held was buried beneath a crust of lies and exaggerations. But the nearly twenty tourists ate it up, snapping pictures of the now empty lot across the street, where the bodies of two women were found three decades before.

"Incredibly, there was no blood at the scene," the guide said, his voice booming from a mounted speaker, "and no explanation as to where it had gone. It had rained that week, leaving the ground soft, but police found no footprints aside from their own, as if the killer had simply floated down like an angel of death…or a vampire."

He got that part right
, Malcolm thought, shaking his head. Ulises had killed the demon back in '88. He eyed the cheap, brass-hilted sword hanging at the guide's waist, tucked beneath a red, polyester sash. How was it that he could get away with wearing that all over town without a problem while Hounacier had to hide inside an oxygen tank bag?
Maybe if I dressed like a cartoon too.
Grinning, Malcolm checked over his shoulder one last time, making sure his new friends Shorty and Cornrows weren't around, then pulled open the tattoo parlor door.

Rock and roll music echoed off the art-covered walls, nearly masking the buzz as a pudgy man with a ponytail inked a woman's already colorful sleeve. AJ sat behind a glass counter, its shelves laden with glistening body jewelry. Seeing Malcolm, she looked at the dragon clock on the wall and gave an exaggerated sigh.

"I know," Malcolm groaned.

AJ set her tablet down and sniffed. "You're late."

"Sorry. I got—"

Her pencil-thin brow shot up, silencing him. She jabbed a thumb toward the empty booth behind her. "Get in the chair."

#

His tongue pressing the roof of his mouth, Malcolm eyed a photograph of a woman's tattooed back. A bright phoenix emerged from blue flames at the base of her spine, its fiery orange wings stretching across her shoulder blades.

"Almost done," AJ said, jabbing the spiked stick along his arm.

Blindness. Malcolm couldn't see, as if his eyes had simply winked out. He froze, panic rising. He still felt and heard rapid, meaty jabs as AJ worked, but he couldn't see. It wasn't blackness. Blackness would have been something. It was just…nothing. The new tattoo tingled like electricity, then sickly, intangible globs of light, like when he rubbed his eyes in the dark, and the room emerged before him.

"There," AJ said.

Malcolm sat still, wondering what in the hell had just happened. Hounacier's blessing had obviously taken effect, but…what did it do? He watched as AJ wiped and cleaned the golden mark. The three tapered lines were exactly as Hounacier's vision, their edges outlined in hair-thin red. She hadn't drawn that part. Already, Hounacier had begun her own modifications to the now blessed mark.

"Everything fine with it?" AJ asked, her voice tinged with artist's doubt.

"It's perfect," Malcolm answered, hoping she wouldn't notice the faint but growing metallic sheen.

"Good."

AJ slathered the fresh tattoo with ointment, cool on his angry skin, and wrapped it with gauze. Malcolm massaged his eyes with her fingertips. What had the blindness meant? Hounacier's gifts never came with instructions. Some he knew from Ulises' own marks. The rest, he had to figure out. Most revealed themselves naturally as he noticed changes in himself. Others, like the empathic eye, gave an instinctive urge when to use them.

He paid AJ for her extra time. Her work was among the best he'd had. She was still young enough that she could easily become a master. Movie stars and the elite would seek her out to offer themselves as her canvas.

The tour bus was gone by the time he left. Malcolm checked the streets, searching for his two new fans or Spiky Hair, though the demon could have easily changed bodies by now, maybe even hopped to one across the world. He doubted that. New Orleans' demonic gravity was too strong for the creatures to resist even when they knew they should. It was here somewhere. Satisfied, Malcolm shouldered Hounacier's bag and the backpack holding his sawed-off and made his way to Alpuente's.

#

Sweat trickled along the back of Malcolm's neck, soaking into his already damp shirt. He entered his hotel, grateful for the cool blast of air conditioning. Tasha wasn't at the shop, but Jim had been eager to speak with him about the werebeast.

"What the hell were you thinking, running out of here like that?" Jim had scolded. "We can't have people seeing you chasing after some guy with a machete."

"I'm sorry," Malcolm said. "I wasn't thinking."

"Damn right you weren't. Ulises taught you better than that. We're just lucky no one called the police." He shook he head. "What exactly were you planning to do if you caught him? Kill him in the street? In front of a hundred people?"

Pursing his lips, Malcolm looked away, unable to answer.

The priest sighed, shook his head. "You can't be gettin' emotional like that, Mal. That puts all of us at risk. You, me, Dad, Tasha, even Hounacier. You know better."

Jim was right of course. He nearly always was. Malcolm
did
know better. Master Turgen would have lost his mind if he'd known about it. Master Schmidt probably would have demoted him. "It won't happen again," he said to himself more than to Jim.

"I know this is tough for you," Jim said. "Just use your head. You're a hunter, Mal. Be one."

Malcolm had given Jim two of his 12-gauge shells for protection: one silver, the other a mixed load for anything else that might wander into the mask's protective gaze. He didn't have that many to give, but he felt better knowing Jim had them. He'd told him about the two men the night before, but Jim didn't have anything more to give than mirror Malcolm's own theories.

Forgoing the elevator, Malcolm took the stairs up to his floor. Still grumbling about Jim's deserved scolding, he opened his hotel room and froze.

He'd left the lights off, but the room was now lit. Malcolm reached into Hounacier's bag, drawing her out. The lights were still off and the heavy curtains closed, but he could see the room clearly.

No, not clearly. The colors were…wrong. Muted.

Swallowing, he closed the door behind him with his foot and scanned the room. Colors pinched off as the door shut, leaving everything cast in shades of red, like a crimson spotlight shone from the bed. Malcolm stepped forward, seeing the clock. How was it illuminating the entire room?

He now noticed how much light spilled through and below the curtains, adding its own orange and white hues, far more than he'd ever noticed. Cautiously, he flipped the wall switch. The light drowned out the colored haze, returning the room to normal.

Son of a bitch.
He turned the light off, plunging himself in a moment of blackness before the glow from the curtains and red-lit clock filled the room. A crazy laugh erupted from his lips, and he flipped the lights on and off again.
Hounacier, you beautiful angel, you didn't?

His phone blooped in his pocket as the picture camera messaged him. Ignoring it, excitement tingling along his skin, Malcolm stepped into the dark bathroom beside him and shut the door. The impossibly faint light from beneath the door seemed to swell, illuminating the narrow room enough for him to see most of it. The visibility rivaled most night scopes. Hounacier's new gift was a great power indeed. Malcolm laughed again and kissed the machete's blade. "I love you, baby. Thank you."

#

Rochelle Duplessis' gris-gris was nearly finished, well ahead of schedule. After several hours stitching and powering it, the growing need to try out his supernatural sight had become unbearable. Malcolm hadn't slept in nearly thirty-eight hours. His blessed stamina could keep him up long enough to enjoy his newest gift.

Malcolm sat at a tiny table against a wall, enjoying a beer and watching the dim bar with more clarity than he could have imagined. The five-piece jazz band had stopped for a quick break, abandoning the Brass Sax into murmurs and inebriated conversations.

He sipped his drink and scanned the crowd. The illuminated faces of customers peering into their phones lit the room like torches. Liz, the redhead from the other night, leaned against the bar, her tits bulging from the top of her shirt as she chatted up a bearded man, working him for drinks. Neither Shorty nor Cornrows had shown themselves yet.
I wonder if anyone here is messaging them.
If the two men were working for someone else, there might be other eyes following him. Pushing the paranoia out of his mind, he finished his drink.
No need to make up more problems than I already have.
Still, Malcolm searched the room for anyone watching him.

Malcolm ordered another beer and headed to the restroom. With no one to watch his table, he carried Hounacier and his backpack with him. Standing in line, he found himself wondering about Tasha. He'd called her earlier that day. Left a voicemail. She'd texted that she enjoyed their date and would see him tomorrow. Why hadn't she called? More so, why did it bother him so much?

It might be a good idea to swing past her place on the way home, just to be sure she was fine. Those men might not have only been following
him
.

No
. He stepped into the scummy bathroom, its floor glistening with piss.
She'll kick you in the teeth if you just drop in this time of night.

Malcolm came back out, alcohol-fueled thoughts pushed aside, and maneuvered through the impatient crowd toward his table. He saw his beer sitting there already and gave it thirty seconds before someone took it. As he made his way closer, the scarab at his arm scuttled around beneath his skin.