As the lime green vehicle bounced out of view in a wake of pale dust, Gabrielle added, "And in the Baron's." She could only hope that it wasn't already too late.

Closing the front door, she twisted the simple lock into place. No dead bolts here, no security chains or bars on doors or windows. Most folks would never dream of crossing a conjurer's threshold uninvited.

Well, not the locals, anyway. As for those who don't know better ... Gabrielle glanced at the sullen expression above Cash's duct-taped mouth. A smile brushed her lips. A fist-throwing, shotgun-grabbing niece will do the job just as nicely.

And as for unseen and otherworldly danger, a hoodoo's wards usually guarded the home quite handily, but the tingle Gabrielle had felt-the warm spiderweb touch of protective gris-gris against evil-as she'd stepped into Divinity's cozy, frankincense- and rose-fragrant home a few hours earlier was now inexplicably missing.

Gabrielle walked into the living room, her gaze skipping from that chair-bound fool Cash to Divinity's softly snoring form on the sofa. The woman's face was untroubled, her light cocoa-colored skin uncreased by worry, fear, or doubt. And Gabrielle had seen every one of those emotions chase across the rootworker's face that morning since she'd learned of her nephew's dire situation.

How in the name of Bon Dieu and all the saints and angels had Divinity's spell backfired? How was such a thing even possible?

Power peals through the room in a deep, bone-thrumming vibration and Gabrielle's heart stutters.

A cold hand trailed ice down Gabrielle's spine-and not for the first time that morning either. Something was very wrong, something that traveled deeper than backfiring spells and suddenly missing house wards.

Maybe it was more of Jean-Julien's-no, make that Doctor Heron, the Jean-Julien she'd once loved had disappeared the day he was arrested for murder-dark work, a hex laid down before Kallie and her handsome dread-locked nomad had ended his dark work forever.

Maybe it was due to the fact that Kallie carried a loa inside of her instead of a soul-a fact her aunt had hidden from the girl until just an hour or so ago.

Yo' soul-yo' Gros Bon Ange -was removed to make room for de loa placed inside you. De same loa dat your mama tried to awaken with blood and darkness by murdering yo' papa and shooting you.

But why was a loa put inside me? Who did it? How? And why the hell would Mama want to awaken it? And where's my soul?

Well, see, dat be de problem. We don't know. Your mama was de last one who had it, and she ain't talking.

Gabrielle shook her head, still amazed. She'd never heard of such a thing. A child's-no, an infant's-soul stolen, the emptiness inside filled with a sleeping loa-one that apparently craved violence.

Which explained-somewhat-what Gabrielle had seen Kallie do as Jean-Julien's soul had escaped his dying, knife-savaged body.

The black dust coating Jean-Julien's soul ripples, then flows backward and down into Kallie's waiting palm. The root doctor's spirit unravels inch by inch, molecule by molecule, until the air is empty.

Gabrielle's fingers plucked at the edges of her scarf, then she mentally shooed away the image of her former lover's ultimate death. Just who or what resided inside of Kallie Riviere? And why? Questions asked by the girl herself, questions that remained unanswered-so far.

A surge of anger stiffened Gabrielle's spine. Stealing identities. Costing innocent folks their lives. Lying to her niece-even if to protect her from her mother's inexplicable and reprehensible actions.

Divinity Santiago has a helluva lot of explaining to do and much to answer for. A shame her niece and nephew are paying for her foolishness. And thinking of that poor boy ...

Maybe, just maybe, there was still time for Gabrielle to help Kallie rescue her cousin from the fate Jean-Julien had no doubt spun into motion even before he'd attempted to kill Kallie body and soul-and would've succeeded, if not for her missing soul.

Gabrielle quickly cleared the coffee table of empty Abita bottles, a blue glass vase full of white roses with peach-rimmed petals, magazines-Boat World, Star Magazine, Louisiana Cookin'-and a slim, well-thumbed copy of The Complete Poems of John Keats.

Makeshift altar clean and empty, Gabrielle hurried to Divinity's worktable for a couple of blessed candles, some holy water, and an incense brazier. Digging through the woman's collection of roots and herbs, she also scooped up a handful of tobacco leaf, a chunk of frankincense resin, and a little bottle of dragon's blood ink.

A small wood carving of a penis nestled in among the brightly painted saint statues caught her attention. Just the thing for the randy loa of the dead. Smiling, she added it to her little pile of goodies.

From the kitchen, she fetched a couple of slices of sourdough bread, grumbling at the lack of peanuts-one of the Baron's favorites-then poured a cup of cold coffee from the carafe on the counter. She discovered a bottle of Captain Morgan spiced rum in the cupboard above the quietly humming refrigerator and was surprised, but pleased, to see hot peppers floating inside.

A quick count revealed the hot pepper tally as twenty-one, a perfect offering for Baron Samedi, gatekeeper to the world of the dead.

And given the hot-peppered rum, it seemed that although Divinity was a hoodoo rootworker and not a Vodou mambo or even a voodoo priestess, the woman was, if nothing else, a hoodoo prepared for a client's any request.

Satisfied with her plunder, Gabrielle returned to the living room, knelt in front of the coffee table, and dumped her offerings onto its polished mahogany surface. With the ease and sure-handedness of decades of practice, she laid out the offerings-bread, black coffee, and rum. Although she wished she were working at her own altar with its veve-and-cross-etched spirit pot, she had no choice but to make do with what she had.

A life hangs in the balance.

Rising to her feet, Gabrielle unstoppered the small blue bottle of holy water, then dipped her fingers into the consecrated fluid. She walked the room, murmuring a protection spell-Where this sacred water is cast, no thing of darkness or evil can last or can endure this water pure-and flicking holy water into the corners, and on the thresholds of the doors and windows.

She paused to sprinkle both a scowling Cash and the sweet-dreaming Divinity, before anointing the items on the altar and then replaced the cork stopper on the bottle of holy water.

Kneeling once more, Gabrielle lit the mingled frankincense and tobacco piled on a charcoal round in the brazier with a wood match, then touched the flame to each of the three candles in turn. The pungent aroma of sweet leaf tobacco and musky incense wafted into the air.

Grabbing one of the magazines from where she'd placed them on the hardwood floor, Gabrielle placed it on the coffee table beside the upright carved wood dick. Then, dipping her finger into the red, cinnamon-scented ink, she drew a cross and a coffin outline on one of the magazines' back page.

With the Baron's symbols-cross, coffin, and phallus-etched on paper, Gabrielle twisted open the bottle of Captain Morgan. The eye-watering odor of peppered rum curled into the air and, blinking, she fanned a hand in front of her face.

Cash emitted a duct-tape muffled complaint-lipsmushed words that sounded something like: Jesus Christ! I can even smell that shit over here.

"Hush, boy," she said. "This rum ain't for you-or any mortal man. It's a gift to the Baron. Now keep quiet while I work." She nodded in satisfaction as Cash rolled his eyes, but otherwise remained silent.

Divinity snored, oblivious.

After voicing the Litany of the Saints and the Lord's Prayer, Gabrielle crossed herself, murmuring, "Au nom du Pere, le Fils, et le Saint Esprit, I call upon you, oh mighty Baron Samedi, all-knowing loa of death and resurrection, gatekeeper to the world of the dead, to humbly ask for a young man's life to be spared."

As she spilled a little of the peppered rum onto the bread, her skin rose in goose bumps, suddenly chilled. The energy charging the room's atmosphere wasn't the tranquil and hushed sense of the sacred that usually followed a blessing or protection spell and invocation. No. This energy was dense and dark and coiled like a python around a twisted oak branch, waiting.

And very, very wrong.

Heart thudding, Gabrielle lowered the bottle of rum to the table and carefully scanned the room, but saw nothing out of place, nothing amiss. Except ...

As her gaze returned to the makeshift altar, she noticed that the smoke from the brazier had thickened, spreading throughout the room like a roiling nicotine- and frankincense-scented thundercloud. The hair lifted on the back of her neck.

"I believe in God, the Father Almighty," she prayed, grabbing the bottle of holy water and rising to her feet, "Creator of heaven and earth."

"Dat nice and all, but I t'ink He be too busy stroking Hisself to pay much mind to yo' prayers," a nasal, masculine voice said, then a night-skinned man wearing a black fedora with a purple band, sunglasses, and a purple shirt beneath what looked like a well-tailored black Armani suit stepped from the thundercloud of smoke. "A cock dat large-an eternal fucking cock-needs beaucoup attention, ma belle femme."

Standing in front of the sofa and the sleeping Divinity, Baron Samedi thrust his silver-handled walking stick between his legs as a visual aid. Waggled it up and down, in and out.

"Mmmph-mmft!" Cash exclaimed.

Gabrielle somewhat agreed with the young outlaw's Holy shit assessment.

Despite the loa's requested presence, everything still felt very wrong to Gabrielle, dangerously off-kilter. From outside, she heard the low rumble of distant thunder. She carefully unstoppered the bottle of holy water, keeping her attention fixed on the Baron and his hip-thrusting pantomime.

"Thank you for answering my call and listening to my petition," she said. "A young man named-" Gabrielle's words withered in her throat as the Baron moved with striking cobra swiftness to stand in front of Cash.

Mr. I-Don't-Believe-in-Juju's eyes widened. His eyebrows disappeared into his sweaty hairline. He hopped his chair back across the hardwood, but the Baron remained right in front of him as though the toes of his black leather dress shoes were duct-taped to the chair legs.

"Mmmph!"

A grin split the Baron's lips. He tapped his walking stick against the top of Cash's blond mullet, then the loa vanished. Cash stiffened, his eyes rolling up white in his head. He slumped in his chair, the ropes knotted around his ankles and wrists keeping him more or less upright.

Before Gabrielle could say a word, Cash straightened up in the chair, yanking free as though the ropes binding him had been braided out of butter, then rose to his feet. He ripped the duct-tape from his mouth and dropped the wilted gray strip to the floor.

Holding out his hands, he wriggled his fingers, then lowered his arms. "Pasty," he declared. "But a fine cheval all de fucking same." His nostrils flared. "Ah, I smell de rum."

"Here," Gabrielle said, lifting the opened bottle. She hadn't expected the Baron to possess Cash, but then, she hadn't expected him to actually manifest for an invocation of mercy either. "I humbly ask for a life, a young man named-"

The Baron laughed. "Let me drink first, woman." He strode over to the coffee-table altar and snatched up the bottle of rum from Gabrielle's hands. With a lewd wink, he tipped the bottle back and poured the hot-peppered rum down his gullet in one long, throat-stretching swallow. The peppers' sharp smell spiced the air.

Rum gone, the Baron saluted Gabrielle with the emptied bottle. "T'anks fo' de drink," he said, his silver-handled walking stick shimmering into his right hand. "And if I wasn't married to my beautiful Maman Brigitte, I would fuck yo' sweet pussy till you begged fo' mercy." Another lewd wink, then a sigh. "But I be married and I got motherfucking work to do."

"My petition ..."

"Ah, oui. Since Jackson Bonaparte already be in his grave, I t'ink it best to keep him dere." The Baron laughed again, but the humorous warmth was missing this time. This time the loa's laughter cut through the air like a razor-edged shovel. "The sonuvabitch had it coming," he said, sounding in that moment exactly like Cash.

But that was impossible. A possessed cheval remained that way until released by the loa. They had no voice of their own, no say, no- "And you were right about that rum not being for any mortal man," the Baron continued in Cash's voice. "Hoo-ee! It was hot enough to set my throat on fire and burn my gut to ash. Good thing I ain't mortal no more, huh?"

Gabrielle stared, mouth dry, heart pounding.

Scooping up the bread and cup of coffee from the altar, Baron Samedi sauntered back into the smoke, then smoke, loa, and the man he rode vanished as thunder cracked overhead.

Oh, Bon Dieu! How was this possible?

Feeling faint, Gabrielle pressed her fisted hands against her chest as though to keep her heart from pounding its way free. She stared at the woman snoring on the sofa in front of her, wondering how to tell her that Cash-the man who watched as her nephew was buried alive-not only housed the loa of death, but controlled him.

And he still hated Jackson Bonaparte.

SEVEN.

A DESPERATE AND BRUTAL FIGHT.

Found you, Daddy.

An image of Cielo flared behind Jackson's eyes-ears pricked forward, intelligence and concern in her eyes (one blue, one brown), her muzzle lifted as though sniffing the air-and prodded him from the half-dreaming twilight he'd tumbled into, poked at his awareness until he was no longer dreaming.

Here, girl ...

He woke up. Unable to breathe. Unable to see. Unable to move.

Panic writhed through Jackson, wriggling like worms underneath the skin, then memory flared like heat lightning across a summer-scorched sky, and he remembered the whole damned nightmare.

The desperate and brutal fight in the yard with three men he's never seen before-two black, one white, all deadly-wondering who hired them even as he swings the baseball bat at their heads.

Being forced out of his own goddamned pickup, wrists bound, and marched in front of a freshly dug grave, a cold sweat bathing his body.

Falling to his knees as his feet are kicked out from under him. Pain ripples along his scalp as someone grabs a handful of hair, jerks his head back, and pours a potion down his throat-a dark liquid smelling of graveyards, oranges, and decay. Jackson gags, struggles to pull free. Fails.

Refusing to look at him, to meet his eyes, the white dude slices at Jackson with a pocketknife-arms, thighs, chest, belly, scalp. Blood pours, stinging, into his eyes. Slicks his skin. Soaks his shirt, his jeans. Warm and wet and sticky.

"Careful, asshole! He's supposed to bleed out slow."

A numbing cold curls through his veins, crackles across his thoughts, slows his heart. And even before they kick him into the grave, Jackson knows he is beyond fucked.

The earth weighed down on Jackson like a lead-lined blanket, pushing him further toward its dark, moist heart, slowly crushing from his aching lungs what little air he'd managed to keep. Dirt clogged his nostrils, clung to his lips, and coated his tongue despite the arms he'd managed to crisscross protectively over his face as the bastards had shoveled soil on top of him.

All business, those sons of bitches. No laughing. No teasing final words. Just the solid schunk of shovel blades into the ground, followed by the cascade of dirt on flesh and denim.

Hell, he could understand that-why waste breath on a tricked-up dead man? But who the fuck would go to so much trouble? None of the crews or dealers he liberated goods from dealt with hoodoo or voodoo-as far as he knew-they'd just plug two into the back of his skull, then dump his body into the bayou.

Another image of Cielo filled Jackson's thoughts. He smelled sunshine warm in her fur.

Daddy. Digging.

A tendril of hope rooted itself in Jackson's heart. Good girl, you.

Six feet above, he heard howling-a sudden blow-down, maybe, or Cielo singing as she worked. His body itched and burned and spasmed, his thoughts spinning like a steering wheel ripping a three-sixty turn.

Panting for air, Jackson slipped underneath the surface of dreams again and plummeted into a cold and endless twilight. And remembered another day, another savage storm.

"The wind is scaring me, Jacks!" Jeanette yells, locking her arms tight around Jackson's neck as he carries her across the yard to the Dodge pickup. Her long dark pigtails, rain-soaked and thick, whip against his face.

"Moi aussi! But I'm glad I've got you to keep me safe, p'tite peu," Jackson teases, despite the tension knotting his belly. "Do you think we could stop and change places? You carry me to the truck?"

"No, silly." Jeanette tightens her stranglehold around his neck. For a split second he feels like he can't breathe, but the sensation vanishes when his sister giggles into his ear. "And don't call me 'little bit' no more. I'm turning seven tomorrow, so I'm big now."

"Big enough to carry me?"

"Uh-huh. I just hafta shrink you with a backwards magnifying glass, then tuck you into my pocket."

"Got that backwards magnifying glass with you?"

"Nuh-uh."

"Looks like I'm gonna hafta keep carrying you, then, bebelle."

"Okay."

Jackson loads his baby sister into the pickup, rain soaking him to the skin despite the dark blue slicker and rubber fishing boots he wears. The wind slams into him, a bully's hard, ruthless shove, and he plants his feet wide in the driveway as he fights to keep his balance. Gulf-warm water needles his face, stings his eyes, sucks at his breath.

"Get your butt in the truck, Jacks!" his mama yells over the wind's ever-increasing shriek as she struggles to open the driver's door and climb in behind the wheel. Her cinnamon curls, cafe au lait skin, and green slicker glisten with rain. "We need to get the hell outta here before it's too late."