Voodoo Dues

CHAPTER 4

Black shirt with black tie, or white shirt with black tie? The decision seemed insurmountable, agonizing even. It had consumed my morning. I stood as I had for the last hour, in front of the full length mirror, the two shirts in question on hangers, one in either hand.

These things were common since the attack. Not necessarily the inability to choose a shirt, but the little things. Sometimes, I just couldn't get past the uncertainty.

The door buzzed and I threw the offending garments down on the bed. It would be Figg, she could help me choose a shirt.

I opened the door and almost closed it in her face. She was standing in the doorway dressed like June Cleaver in mourning. “Please tell me you're joking.”

“I didn't have a black dress.” She looked at me with big blue puppy dog eyes. “I borrowed it from my landlady.”

“Dear God.” I shook my head, not quite believing that I wasn't driving her to a dress shop to get something more modern to wear. “Come on in.” Clearly her landlady had once been a well-heeled 1950's housewife. The entire outfit down to the white gloves looked vintage. All except for the hot pink petticoat that peeked out from underneath the full skirt a little when she walked.

“You're not ready?” She dropped the small duffle bag she was carrying just inside door.

“I haven't been able to choose a shirt.”

Figg swished into the bedroom and held up the white one. “It's a funeral Boss, keep it classic.”

I took the shirt from her and put it on. “Perhaps not as classic as you are.”

“I knew I shouldn't have let Esther talk me into the gloves,” She said, peeling the white cloth off her hands. “They're too small anyway.”

We were late. The service hadn't begun yet, but we were the last attendees to locate the burial plot. The cemetery was an old one, full of large trees and narrow, labyrinthine roads, a nightmare for those who didn't know the layout. We wound our way past stone-carved angels, big, elaborate headstones and the odd mausoleum.

Figg parked her Behemoth at the end of the line of vehicles and we hiked to the site. All eyes were of course on us as we approached. I imagined that we looked like a mid-century gothic couple going to the grad formal.

Teetering on her heels, Figg was clinging to my arm, watching the uneven ground for hazards. She was oblivious to the attention her ensemble was drawing. Never in my life had I wanted to crawl under a rock so badly.

The only person who seemed to draw more curious attention than Figg was a gigantic black man in purple drag lingering off to the side.

Rene Champtillion stood at the head of the casket, looking smaller than when we first met. Perhaps it was the black dress that made her almost fade into the scenery. Grief seemed to weigh on her, her head was no longer held as high as it had been on our previous meeting, her shoulders no longer as rigid. She met my eyes briefly, giving a single nod, an acknowledgment of my presence as requested. This was the public funeral. It was kept mostly conventional. A small altar near where Rene stood was the only concession to her faith. It held a bottle of rum and several cigars alongside a visage of Baron Samedi, the Loa of the dead.

The Hougan began and I coaxed Figg nearer the back edge of the crowd, giving the family their space. Several guests lingered with us, some that I recognized from their visits to the bar. Most of the attendees were not a part of the Champtillion family, but a part of a larger community of others. They would represent most levels of the magic community within the city.

Pierre's coffin was lowered into the ground, and final farewells were said by the small cluster of family surrounding him. All the while, I felt a growing unease, like a bug under a magnifying glass. Figg was still clinging to my left arm. Strangely enough, I was comforted by that. I remained there, eyes straight ahead, hoping that her presence might discourage a public meet and greet.

It might have for some, but I knew it was all over when a small blonde woman approached. She was elegantly dressed in classic black.

“Excuse me, Dr Cairn.” I sighed. I couldn't help it. “I'm sorry to bother you,” She said, her cheeks coloring a light pink.” Great! Now for the obligatory guilt. I'd made myself known to these people in my research. It was unfair to cut that off completely. “My name is Lily Randall and I just wanted to say how highly my sisters in North Carolina speak of you.”

Figg started to remove her arm from mine. I pulled the arm closer, trapping her, hoping that she'd realize I wanted her to stay. “Very nice to meet you Miss Randall.” I shook her tiny hand. “Your sisters were very kind to me.”

The women she spoke of, a coven of formidable witches had indeed been kind and helped me fill half a journal with information about their craft and the female lines that the powers passed through.

“Miss Randall, you wouldn't have any young sisters who specialize in warding would you?” Her cheeks colored pink again and I had my answer. “The favor was appreciated.” I assured her. She handed me a purple business card walked away, but the floodgates were officially open.

Figg leaned in. “What kind of favor did she do?”

“The chalk crop circles,” I whispered.

Before long a line was actually forming. They were mostly magical people of all shape, size and belief system. The Hougan who'd officiated the funeral, Bartholomew Conway, introduced himself with a hearty handshake and an offer of healing. He couldn’t have been more than a couple inches taller than me, but he was a much bigger man, it suggested that in his youth Mr. Conway had been intimidating. His hair was almost completely white with deep lines etched in his tanned face. Sympathetic green eyes bored into me.

“I can see that your injuries still cause you pain,” he said, clutching my hand in both of his big, meaty ones. “If you would like to visit my home, I can help you with that.”

“Thank you.” I tried to remain non-committal. I wasn't sure Voodoo healing was something I wanted to try just yet. He was right though. The physical pain was gone, but mentally, the attack still plagued me.

“Dr. Cairn.” The man who approached next had a wildness about him that made me stiffen. Nothing about him shouted danger. He was about my height and build with a halo of curly brown hair and a full beard. I shook his hand even though I wanted to run. “May we speak away from...” His eyes slid to Figg who was standing there like a trooper, taking it all in, “Your mate.” The use of the word confirmed my fears.

Figg started to correct him. “We can talk here,” I told him, cutting her off.

“Very well, I wanted to extend an apology for the actions of others.” He bowed his head and showed me the bare side of his neck, a submissive gesture coming from a man who was not. “There can be consequences for those who harmed you if you seek them out.”

“That was weird,” Figg said after the man was gone.

“That was a werewolf.” I told her.

Her eyes grew round. “No way!”

I led Figg away from what remained of the crowd. “Thank you for staying with me,” I said once we were alone. “I should have anticipated that.”

“Why did the werewolf call me your mate?”

“I think he was using it as a clue. Telling me what he was without actually saying it.” My confirming what he thought was also a way to protect her. That part I didn't verbalize because I knew Figg well enough to know that she would object. Shapeshifters, especially the wolf variety tended to be very male dominated, females among them were considered lower class citizens. Telling him that Figg belonged to me was the best way I knew to keep her off their radar.

The attendees had begun to clear out, vacating the tent over the grave leaving only Rene and her remaining grandson in view. They were having a heated exchange. Their voices, not raised enough to be heard, but the body language spoke volumes. Charles’ gaze shot toward us often enough for me to guess that the conversation had something to do with her asking me to attend.

He stomped away from Rene, coming directly toward me, daggers in his eyes. I braced myself for a confrontation, but he altered course, clipping Figg with his shoulder.

“Hey asshole!” she yelled, teetering on her heels, trying to get her balance back. She started to fall. I turned and grabbed her around the waist in time to see Rene's Grandson's dark smile. Knocking Figg over had been his intent, perhaps a test to see if I would catch her?

Her arms gripped me, hands holding on with a strength I hadn't expected. That wasn't the startling part. The part that put me completely off balance was holding her flush against me. It had been a long time, before the accident actually since I'd held a woman against me like that. Even with all the layers of clothing between us, the shape of her curves and the softness of her breasts pressed against my chest was alarming.

I quickly steadied her and pulled away. Personal attachments were not what I needed, certainly not carnal thoughts concerning an employee.

“Thanks,” she said. She turned around and flipped Charles Champtillion the bird.

“You're welcome,” I said, trying my best not to laugh at her completely inappropriate behavior.

“What was his problem?”

“I have a feeling that we're about to find out.” Rene was hurrying over to us.

“Are you alright?” Rene asked. “I am very sorry. He has too much fire sometimes.”

“We're fine,” I assured her.

“Walk with me?”

I took Figg's arm again, helping her over the uneven earth. We walked away from the remaining mourners.

“Evil is targeting my family.” She kept walking, just ahead of us. “Pierre's death is only the latest harm done. We are cursed and I do not know who is responsible.” She stopped and turned, her eyes shining with emotion. “Please help me find out who took my grandbaby from me. I have no one else that I can trust.”

I felt for her. She lowered her small body onto a bench, her shoulders slumped. “I wouldn't know where to start,” I told her.

Rene shook her head. “Belie Belcan says that you are the only human who can help me find justice for my boy.” She rose, her posture back to its normal rigidity. “Please, consider it. I’ll pay you with money, favors, whatever you want.” She walked away, heading for the idling limousine.

I took Rene's spot on the small bench, Figg squeezed in beside me. “Who is Belie Belcan?”

“I'd imagine that it is a Loa,” I said

“Are we going to help her?”

“We're going to stay out of it.”