Read Online Darkness Becomes Her by Kelly Keaton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kelly Keaton
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saints.
Sebastian stopped in front of one such gate. The wrought iron whined as he pushed it open. We entered a tunnel, a dark space where the sound of our footsteps bounced off the vaulted brick ceiling of the courtyard passageway running between the West Indies–style homes on either side.
My eyes watered as we ventured from the darkness of the tunnel and into the bright light of a large walled courtyard. Water splashed from a fountain in the center and everywhere there were birds—chirping, fluttering, moving in the trees. Scarves and beads hung from the large banana tree in the back left-hand corner.
“This way,” Sebastian said quietly.
I followed him along the brick path to a stone patio that butted up to the first floor of the house. Three sets of French doors ran the length of the ground floor. The middle set was open, held ajar by potted plants and a crude, life-size wood carving of the Virgin Mary, her neck draped with beads.
Incense clouded the room inside. Fine particles of dust and wisps of smoke floated in random shafts of sunlight. The room was packed with things. Weird things. Old things. Gaudythings. So many things that I found it hard to concentrate.
“Sebastian Lamarliere,” said a deep, heavily accented Cajun voice with a slight singsong quality. A figure came around the corner in a thin, wide-sleeved robe that brushed the tops of long bare feet. Dark skin and eyes. Closely cropped gray, frizzy hair. Two large hoops in the ears. There were rings on the fingers of one hand and a bouquet of daisies in the other.
I was stumped.
It was the first time in my life I couldn’t tell a person’s gender. My eyes fell to the neck, looking for an Adam’s apple, but it was swathed in a colorful scarf, the ends trailing down the back of the gown.
“Jean Solomon,” Sebastian said with respect.
He said it in the French way. The French “Jean” was male.
Male it is, then.
Jean went behind a long counter and retrieved a vase for the flowers. “These are for Legba,” he said, smelling a daisy before snuggling it into the vase.
Jean beckoned for us to step closer; the warm wise eyes and gentle tone of voice made me a little more at ease. I gave him a small smile, not sure what to say, and it took several uncomfortable minutes before he slid the vase aside and propped his arms on the counter. “What interesting thing have you brought into my shop, Bastian?” His eyes squinted at me, bright withamusement, but deep and knowing and mysterious.
“Sebastian brought me here to see if you can lift my curse … an old one.”
An eyebrow rose at my words, or the fact that I’d answered for Sebastian; I couldn’t tell. “An old one, indeed.” He rested his chin on one hand. “Love the moon tattoo. What is your name,
chère
?”
“Ari.”
“And, what, Miss
Ar-eee
, will you offer the loa in return for removing this curse?”
I knew enough to know that loa were the spirits a voodoo priest called upon to aid him, and Legba was a spirit that acted as a guide between the priest and the spirit world. Or at least, that was how I thought it went. What I hadn’t considered was payment. And I was running low on funds.
“I tell you what,” Jean said, “we will see about this curse and the loa will tell you what they want for it,
c’est bon
?”
I released my breath. “Thanks.” His wink brought a smile to my face and eased the tension from my shoulders.
Now we’re getting somewhere.
He moved around the counter, urging me and Sebastian into a large square room, ringed with items and chairs but empty in the center. On the far wall was a wide altar, caked with candle wax, small idols of voodoo and Christian religion, food, trinkets, anddried blood. There was a photograph of a woman in a turban and a large statue of Christ on the cross. Curled around the base of the statue was a yellow python. A small python, but size never really mattered when it came to snakes.
The blood drained from my face as the
Sebastian stopped in front of one such gate. The wrought iron whined as he pushed it open. We entered a tunnel, a dark space where the sound of our footsteps bounced off the vaulted brick ceiling of the courtyard passageway running between the West Indies–style homes on either side.
My eyes watered as we ventured from the darkness of the tunnel and into the bright light of a large walled courtyard. Water splashed from a fountain in the center and everywhere there were birds—chirping, fluttering, moving in the trees. Scarves and beads hung from the large banana tree in the back left-hand corner.
“This way,” Sebastian said quietly.
I followed him along the brick path to a stone patio that butted up to the first floor of the house. Three sets of French doors ran the length of the ground floor. The middle set was open, held ajar by potted plants and a crude, life-size wood carving of the Virgin Mary, her neck draped with beads.
Incense clouded the room inside. Fine particles of dust and wisps of smoke floated in random shafts of sunlight. The room was packed with things. Weird things. Old things. Gaudythings. So many things that I found it hard to concentrate.
“Sebastian Lamarliere,” said a deep, heavily accented Cajun voice with a slight singsong quality. A figure came around the corner in a thin, wide-sleeved robe that brushed the tops of long bare feet. Dark skin and eyes. Closely cropped gray, frizzy hair. Two large hoops in the ears. There were rings on the fingers of one hand and a bouquet of daisies in the other.
I was stumped.
It was the first time in my life I couldn’t tell a person’s gender. My eyes fell to the neck, looking for an Adam’s apple, but it was swathed in a colorful scarf, the ends trailing down the back of the gown.
“Jean Solomon,” Sebastian said with respect.
He said it in the French way. The French “Jean” was male.
Male it is, then.
Jean went behind a long counter and retrieved a vase for the flowers. “These are for Legba,” he said, smelling a daisy before snuggling it into the vase.
Jean beckoned for us to step closer; the warm wise eyes and gentle tone of voice made me a little more at ease. I gave him a small smile, not sure what to say, and it took several uncomfortable minutes before he slid the vase aside and propped his arms on the counter. “What interesting thing have you brought into my shop, Bastian?” His eyes squinted at me, bright withamusement, but deep and knowing and mysterious.
“Sebastian brought me here to see if you can lift my curse … an old one.”
An eyebrow rose at my words, or the fact that I’d answered for Sebastian; I couldn’t tell. “An old one, indeed.” He rested his chin on one hand. “Love the moon tattoo. What is your name,
chère
?”
“Ari.”
“And, what, Miss
Ar-eee
, will you offer the loa in return for removing this curse?”
I knew enough to know that loa were the spirits a voodoo priest called upon to aid him, and Legba was a spirit that acted as a guide between the priest and the spirit world. Or at least, that was how I thought it went. What I hadn’t considered was payment. And I was running low on funds.
“I tell you what,” Jean said, “we will see about this curse and the loa will tell you what they want for it,
c’est bon
?”
I released my breath. “Thanks.” His wink brought a smile to my face and eased the tension from my shoulders.
Now we’re getting somewhere.
He moved around the counter, urging me and Sebastian into a large square room, ringed with items and chairs but empty in the center. On the far wall was a wide altar, caked with candle wax, small idols of voodoo and Christian religion, food, trinkets, anddried blood. There was a photograph of a woman in a turban and a large statue of Christ on the cross. Curled around the base of the statue was a yellow python. A small python, but size never really mattered when it came to snakes.
The blood drained from my face as the
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