Black Heart Loa.

Adrian Phoenix.

Dedicated to my wonderful sons, Sebastian and Matt.

Thanks for believing in my dream and cheering me on every step of the way. I love you both!.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

Thanks, as always, to my editor, Jennifer Heddle, for her amazing insight and for helping me shape the best possible story-each and every time. You won't find a better editor anywhere. Ain't possible. And to my agent, Matt Bialer, for his unflagging support and encouragement. You always lift my spirits. (And to Lindsay Ribar for all the Supernatural chats.) Tons of hugs and kisses to all the folks at Pocket Books who poured their time, energy, and love into this book: Renee Huff, Erica Feldon, Stephanie DeLuca, and Anne Cherry-among others.

Thanks so much to Steve Stone for the truly stunning covers and for bringing Kallie and her world to life.

Special hugs and kisses to all my readers. I can't thank you enough for picking up this book. If this is your first Kallie adventure, bienvenue! If this is your second trip into the bayou with Kallie, merci beaucoup and welcome back!

And, as always, thanks to my friends and family for making this all possible: Sherri Lyons, Jen Phoenix, Kylah, and Liam-I love you all! Karen Abrahamson, D. T. Steiner, Lynn Adams, Marty and Sharon Embertson-I couldn't do it without you!

BLACK HEART LOA.

ONE.

FIVE OF SPADES.

The goddamned nightmare hadn't ended, after all.

Kallie Riviere shuffled the blue Bicycle cards she used for divination, their worn edges flipping against her palms. Drawing in a steadying breath, she closed her eyes and focused on her cousin Jackson Bonaparte, desperately hoping that the last words he'd said to her wouldn't become his last words, period.

"Gotta go. See you on Sunday. Love ya."

After not seeing his pickup in the driveway, Kallie had assumed Jackson had tossed his Siberian husky into the bed of his Dodge Ram and driven into town for a couple of beers-despite the fact that she'd asked him to stay put, to keep him safe from the man stalking their family.

Then she'd discovered Jackson's protective mojo bag in the grass in front of their ti-tante's house-its leather cord torn as though it had been ripped from around his neck-along with the baseball bat he kept beside the back door in case of trouble.

As Kallie picked up the mojo bag from the grass, the woodsy scents of sandalwood and dog rose wafting up from its red flannel, dread had dropped like stones into her belly. She'd known. Felt it down to the marrow.

Jackson hadn't driven to the Hair of the Dog Tavern. He was missing.

"An eye for an eye is never enough," Doctor Heron whispers.

And the long nightmare Kallie thought had just ended-one she had barely survived-was still very much in play and had just swept over her cousin.

A nightmare that had begun damned near twenty-four hours earlier in her blood-soaked bed at the Prestige Hotel in New Orleans and had ended on the banks of the bayou behind her tante Divinity's house in Bayou Cypres Noir.

All because her hoodoo aunt had stolen the identity of another conjurer and had, therefore, brought revenge-seeking, soul-killing Jean-Julien St. Cyr-Doctor Heron-the bogeyman of hoodoo, into their lives.

And had nearly cost Kallie her own-body and soul. Or would've if she had a soul-and that was another goddamned matter altogether. Another matter for another time. Right now, she needed to find her cousin.

Kallie shuffled the cards, Jackson's words looping through her mind like a mantra, a fervent prayer.

Gotta go. See you on Sunday. Love ya.

She pictured Jackson as the cards ricocheted against her palms-eyes the color of heated honey and brimming with laughter, slightly tilted like her own; sun-bronzed skin; coffee-dark hair brushing against his muscle-corded shoulders in thick waves; lips slanted into a pirate's wicked smirk; he stood just a whisper under a lean-muscled six feet.

He was the same age as she, twenty-three, but just a couple of months ahead of her. And in love with the restless sea he had once called-in a rum-sodden moment-his briny bride.

Kallie saturated her cousin's image with her desire to find him. Alive. Intact.

Love ya back, and I'm goddamned holding you to Sunday, Jacks.

She'd finished shuffling the cards, and Kallie's fingers stilled on top of the blue deck. She opened her eyes. Her pulse raced through her veins. Her heart kicked hard against her CPR-compression-injured and aching ribs. She felt the weight of each set of eyes settling like anxious doves along her shoulders.

Her tante and hoodoo teacher, Divinity, stood behind her along with the woman whose identity Divinity had stolen, a woman Kallie had met only an hour or so ago-Gabrielle LaRue.

Kallie didn't know whether Gabrielle was a rootworker like her and her aunt or a voodoo mambo. But it was Gabrielle LaRue who Doctor Heron had blamed for his time in prison; Gabrielle LaRue he'd blamed for poisoning his clients and leaving him to take the blame.

"An eye for an eye is never enough," Doctor Heron whispers.

But the bastard had gone after the wrong woman, the wrong family, because of that goddamned stolen identity.

Kallie's throat tightened. Several people had died because of that mistake, more than one in her place. Gage had been the first.

He lies on his belly, his face turned to the side. Blood masks his fine features, glitters in his black curls. All color has drained from his espresso-brown skin, leaving his blue-inked clan tattoos stark on his muscular back, ass, and thighs.

The sexy conjurer from one of the freewheeling nomad clans-a pagan blend of biker and Gypsy-had died body and soul upon her hex-poisoned hotel bed in New Orleans after a night of sweaty, bendy, hot-blooded play, while she'd been in the bathroom sick on too much champagne.

Then Lord Basil Augustine, the leader of the Hecatean Alliance-a fraternity of magicians, conjurers, and rootworkers-had taken a bullet meant for Kallie, a bullet fired in desperation by Doctor Heron's doomed, crazed daughter, Rosette.

Rough hands latch onto Kallie's shoulders and spin her away. Augustine's suit jacket whispers against her robe as he twists his body past hers. Thunder cracks through the room. Augustine grunts. He stumbles against Kallie ...

And Dallas. Kallie drew upon a deep well of relief when she thought of the hard-drinking root doctor and how he'd survived Doctor Heron's murderous attack-a knife across the throat-thanks to the skill of the Hecatean Alliance surgeons and healers who'd saved his life. He was currently hospitalized at the medical center on the twentieth floor of the Prestige, fresh out of surgery, and hopefully drugged to the gills.

Oh, and let's not forget Belladonna-poppet-bound and kidnapped.

And speaking of whom ...

Belladonna Brown, mambo-in-training and Kallie's best friend, sat straight-backed on the floral-patterned sofa Kallie was kneeling beside, her face with its flawless chocolate-colored skin composed despite the worry flickering in her startling hazel eyes.

"You okay, Shug?" Belladonna asked. "You look like you're about to start throwing punches."

"Not a bad idea," Kallie said. "Just wish I had someone to throw them at."

"Mmm-hmm," Belladonna sympathized.

She'd been snoozing on the sofa after the night's events when Kallie had awakened her with a frantic shake of her shoulder.

It's Jacks. And his ass is in the fire, for true.

Hellfire. Then we gotta pull his fine ass out.

Goddamned straight.

"Take a deep breath, Shug, before you turn over that card," Belladonna murmured. "I can see the pulse pounding in your throat. Try to relax."

"Focus on yo' cousin, you," Divinity urged.

Kallie gritted her teeth against the urge to tell them both, No goddamned shit. Now shut the hell up and let me do what I know how to do already.

Closing her eyes, Kallie drew in a deep breath of air scented with beeswax, the perfume of her aunt's side-yard roses drifting in through the screen door, and the earthy odors of patchouli and frankincense from the herb- and root-cluttered worktable, and drew them deep into her lungs, ignoring the pain twinging through her sternum.

Her pulse eased off the throttle. She brushed her fingers across the deck's slick back, then cut the deck into three stacks on the sofa cushion beside Belladonna.

Kallie flipped over the first card on the first stack.

She wasn't surprised when she saw the king of spades-bad luck coming from a man or with men. Okay, then. Was the late Doctor Heron responsible for Jackson's disappearance or had a posse of unhappy outlaws decided to put a stop to her cousin's Robin Hoodstyle bayou thefts of illegal goods?

Jackson had been skating on thin luck for some time now.

Grasping the sharp edge of the first card on the second stack, Kallie turned it over. Her blood chilled. The goddamned queen of spades. Bad luck coming from a woman or with women.

"Hellfire," Belladonna breathed. "Both the king and queen. Jackson's in deep."

"Beaucoup deep, Bell," Kallie said. "Deep enough to drown."

"We ain't gonna allow dat, girl," Divinity said, voice tight. "Boy ain't gonna drown, no. Now turn over de next damned card."

Kallie touched the back of the top card on the third stack, drew in a deep breath of sandalwood- and sage-fragrant air, then flipped it over. Her heart sank. The five of spades.

"Sweet Jesus, dey all be spades."

"At least we haven't seen the ace of spades," Gabrielle soothed.

"True dat," Divinity agreed. "Mauvaise partance, bonne arrivee."

A bad beginning brings a good ending. Kallie mentally crossed her fingers, wishing those words true.

"Delays, setbacks, maybe defeat," Belladonna said. She shook her head, her black and midnight-blue curls shivering like a flower in the breeze. "Maybe," she added hopefully, "that's meant for whoever took Jacks and not for those of us looking for Jacks."

Kallie blew out a breath and nodded, even though she thought the prospect unlikely. She gathered up the three piles and merged them into one stack again. She was just about to lay down the first row of six cards, when the whang of the porch door slamming against the house jolted her up onto her feet and spun her around.

Wondering why Cielo hadn't barked a warning, Kallie remembered with a sudden pang that Jackson's Siberian husky was also missing.

Two men wearing black ski masks, jeans, and black T-shirts dashed into the living room, shotguns in their black-gloved hands. The ominous shuh-shunk of rounds being pumped into place echoed throughout the room.

Kallie's heart launched into overdrive, racking a round of adrenaline into her veins. She eyed the cards still clutched in her hands. Welcome to a setback. Hello, delay. Goddamned five of spades.

TWO.

HOUSE FULL O' HOODOOS "Don't none of y'all make a fucking move!" The taller of the two men yelled as he halted beside the coffee table, his shotgun swinging between Kallie and Belladonna on the sofa and Divinity and Gabrielle at the cherrywood rockers opposite. Kallie noticed the back end of a blond mullet poking out of his ski mask. "Or I'll blow your fucking brains out!"

"Cash, man, tone it down a little," his partner said, voice low and uneasy. "I ain't real comfortable with that kinda language around women."

"What the hell have I fucking said about using my name on jobs, asswipe?" Cash grated through clenched teeth. "How many goddamned times do I hafta tell you, Kerry? There. How does it feel, Kerry-Kerry-goddamned-fucking-Kerry?"

"You don't hafta to be such a dick about it," Kerry muttered.

Belladonna made an odd snorting sound, like she was choking. Kallie risked a quick glance and confirmed that her friend had clasped both hands over her mouth, trying to trap the laughter inside.

"Cash and Kerry?" Kallie questioned, speaking for them all. "Y'all kidding?"

"Shut the hell up," Cash snarled, pointing the shotgun's dark mouth at her. "And sit your ass down."

Kerry glanced at Divinity and said, "Apologies for the language, ma'am. My mama always told me to be respectful around womenfolk."

Divinity's hands dropped to her lavender-skirted hips as she drew herself up to her magically looming five-seven and lifted her chin, the expression on her light cocoa-colored face forbidding.

"Yo' apologies ain't accepted, boy," she said. "Breaking into a house is a sight more disrespectful dan de language. And I'm sure yo' mama would agree dat aiming shotguns at de people inside dat house be even more disrespectful. And dis ain't just a house full o' women. Dis be a house full o' hoodoos."

"And mambos," Gabrielle added, folding her arms underneath the bustline of her carnation-red blouse and giving a curt nod of her red-scarfed head for emphasis.

Kallie glanced at her. Well, one question answered.

Kerry's ski-mask-encircled eyes widened. "Hoodoos? Mambos?"

Cash snorted. "Hoodoos and mambos. Different names for the same thing-con artists. Kerry-man, if brains were leather, you wouldn't have enough to saddle a damned june bug."

"Ain't true," Kerry protested, shaking his head. "I ain't the stupid one here. At least I know that hoodoos handle juju and potions and medicines and mambos are like voodoo priestesses-all about the religion and the loas and shit. You're the one who ain't got enough brains to saddle a june bug."