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Authors: Trish J. MacGregor
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withdrew a small, rectangular wooden box. She held it tightly in both hands and hurried toward the building that formed the northern boundary of the courtyard. It resembled an old barracks and had once housed Civil War soldiers. The front porch sagged, some of the windows were cracked, and the place screamed for a fresh coat of paint.
Dominica sensed the barracks was at least twenty years older than the hotel, dating back to around 1839. In the cosmic scheme of things, 1839 was yesterday. What a difference from Ecuador, where many buildings and plazas dated back to before the time of the Incas. Yet it was one of the oldest spots on the island and she felt at home within the barracks’ chipped, barren walls, surrounded by the smell of its dusty history.
She hoped to eventually spiff up all these old buildings around town, make them more appealing for both tourists and locals. Whit, her expert on American culture, advised her against doing anything until the town was truly a brujo enclave. He said that any such activity might attract attention from the county commissioners, who forbade renovations to historical buildings without all sorts of bureaucratic red tape. She knew that for her plan to succeed, she had to avoid scrutiny by authorities.
Dominica entered through the door on the far side, so that no one inside the hotel could see her—or rather, see her redheaded host, Maddie. Today, Dominica controlled Maddie completely—no resistance, no fights, no arguments, just a blissful silence from the young woman’s essence. Today, the ease with which she used Maddie’s body made her feel as if it actually belonged to her. Dominica prompted her to reach into her jacket pocket for a flashlight, turn it on, then directed her to the interior of the building, to what used to be the barracks kitchen. No reaction at all from Maddie. These days, the only times she resisted was when Dominica urged her to have sex with Whit’s host. And then she fought violently for control of her own body.
The linoleum floor was scuffed and filthy, dust covered the counters, a scarred wooden table stood in the middle of the room. Four flickering candles provided enough illumination for her to see the two others seated at the table, waiting for her.
Whit, her second in command, eyed her with such naked desire she couldn’t wrench her eyes away from him. In the lambent light, his host, the island mayor, Peter Stanton, looked like a middle-aged Olympian god. His thick white hair, those smoldering dark eyes, those beautiful hands that scoped out her deepest sexual desires: Dominica drank in the sight of him. A quick, sly smile reshaped his mouth as she set the box on the table. She shrugged off her pack, set it on the floor, and sat down.
“Where’re the others?” she asked.
“Late,” Whit said.
Late. Now that irritated her. How could the other members of the committee be late for the first judicial hearing in her new tribe? In the old days, in Esperanza, when she had given an order, it was carried out immediately. But those brujos had been older, many of them ancient; the members of her new tribe were, for the most part, young, naïve, recently dead. They didn’t understand the rules yet.
“I’m sure they’ll be along,” said Liam, nudging his host’s glasses farther up on the bridge of his nose. “All our hosts are on island time. You know … no clocks.”
Or the ghosts themselves weren’t entirely adjusted to a twenty-four-hour clock yet. Cedar Key’s perfect isolation—the nearest city lay fifty miles inland—was both a blessing and a curse. The live-and-let-live attitude made the populace more passive, but they could also be fiercely independent.
Inside the wooden box, the imprisoned brujo screamed to be released, screams that Whit and Liam both heard. Liam’s host, Sam Dorset, winced as though he found the screams physically painful. He reminded her of a bear or some other lumbering creature, but his haunted eyes
Dominica sensed the barracks was at least twenty years older than the hotel, dating back to around 1839. In the cosmic scheme of things, 1839 was yesterday. What a difference from Ecuador, where many buildings and plazas dated back to before the time of the Incas. Yet it was one of the oldest spots on the island and she felt at home within the barracks’ chipped, barren walls, surrounded by the smell of its dusty history.
She hoped to eventually spiff up all these old buildings around town, make them more appealing for both tourists and locals. Whit, her expert on American culture, advised her against doing anything until the town was truly a brujo enclave. He said that any such activity might attract attention from the county commissioners, who forbade renovations to historical buildings without all sorts of bureaucratic red tape. She knew that for her plan to succeed, she had to avoid scrutiny by authorities.
Dominica entered through the door on the far side, so that no one inside the hotel could see her—or rather, see her redheaded host, Maddie. Today, Dominica controlled Maddie completely—no resistance, no fights, no arguments, just a blissful silence from the young woman’s essence. Today, the ease with which she used Maddie’s body made her feel as if it actually belonged to her. Dominica prompted her to reach into her jacket pocket for a flashlight, turn it on, then directed her to the interior of the building, to what used to be the barracks kitchen. No reaction at all from Maddie. These days, the only times she resisted was when Dominica urged her to have sex with Whit’s host. And then she fought violently for control of her own body.
The linoleum floor was scuffed and filthy, dust covered the counters, a scarred wooden table stood in the middle of the room. Four flickering candles provided enough illumination for her to see the two others seated at the table, waiting for her.
Whit, her second in command, eyed her with such naked desire she couldn’t wrench her eyes away from him. In the lambent light, his host, the island mayor, Peter Stanton, looked like a middle-aged Olympian god. His thick white hair, those smoldering dark eyes, those beautiful hands that scoped out her deepest sexual desires: Dominica drank in the sight of him. A quick, sly smile reshaped his mouth as she set the box on the table. She shrugged off her pack, set it on the floor, and sat down.
“Where’re the others?” she asked.
“Late,” Whit said.
Late. Now that irritated her. How could the other members of the committee be late for the first judicial hearing in her new tribe? In the old days, in Esperanza, when she had given an order, it was carried out immediately. But those brujos had been older, many of them ancient; the members of her new tribe were, for the most part, young, naïve, recently dead. They didn’t understand the rules yet.
“I’m sure they’ll be along,” said Liam, nudging his host’s glasses farther up on the bridge of his nose. “All our hosts are on island time. You know … no clocks.”
Or the ghosts themselves weren’t entirely adjusted to a twenty-four-hour clock yet. Cedar Key’s perfect isolation—the nearest city lay fifty miles inland—was both a blessing and a curse. The live-and-let-live attitude made the populace more passive, but they could also be fiercely independent.
Inside the wooden box, the imprisoned brujo screamed to be released, screams that Whit and Liam both heard. Liam’s host, Sam Dorset, winced as though he found the screams physically painful. He reminded her of a bear or some other lumbering creature, but his haunted eyes
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