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Eight
Sacrifice Or Madness?
It takes character to admit when you need help.
I need help and the only person I know who has the knowledge necessary for any understanding of the symbols and markings from the crime scenes, the message they might have been sending, especially the one left on my car, is Hattie. I know this is an ongoing investigation and only people in the department should have access to the information, but she’s the only person I trust. Especially with this.
It’s not clinical, or intellectual, or even systematic. It’s not science, nor can it be broken down into its individual parts to get to the base of it. Sometimes it’s not the why’s or how’s, because magic just is. It’s desire and want, it’s sacrifice and deliverance, it’s a request fulfilled, and payment rendered. There’s a balance that must be kept at all costs, a give-and-take. Too often, though, you aren’t prepared for what you come face-to-face with. If you survive, you do not leave unscathed.
The women were made to look like a payment, a sacrifice, but I think Ignatius was right. There was more to the crimes than what was on the surface. A message in the crimes themselves.
The Seven Deadly Sins.
The way Ignatius laid it out made it so clear, so obvious, I can’t believe I didn’t see it myself.
What most folks don’t know is that Louisiana Voodoo is a folk religion originally brought over with the Haitian slaves in the 1670’s. Over time, and through blending with other cultures and religions, Catholicism primarily, it has evolved into what it is today. A diverse convergence of every single person who has ever practiced. It is as multicultural as the society in which it dwells. There is no one way to do it right. That’s why it’s virtually impossible to decipher the symbols and markings. It’s a boiling cauldron of every single type of magic ever practiced, and the cherry on top is religion.
It’s a mess.
However, with Ash Wednesday quickly approaching, and the basics of the crimes, the tie-in to The Seven Deadly Sins makes complete sense.
And Ignatius was the one to see it first. The Beauchamp heir.
He’s a beautiful devil with a mouth that could back up the dirty things that flow from it. He is sin in the flesh with a body and face of a god. You’d beg to do unholy and very bad things with him.
As I sat in the car, Ignatius’ presence was enough to awaken everything from earlier. I felt the firm press of his fingers into my flesh, my lips ached from our feral kisses, but my sex? It still throbbed from the intensity of my orgasms. And, Christ, did I ever come. After our…whatever that was at the precinct between Ignatius and me, the ride over had grown quiet and somber, like the air was heavy and fat with the monsters that lurked in the shadows. I held onto the banter that had passed between us, and the filthy promises Ignatius made. I needed them to keep me grounded and in the present. Because this mess could suck you in and destroy you. That is precisely why I left New Orleans.
When we get to Hattie’s place, the hair at the back of my neck stands on end. I get a sense someone is watching me, that something is out there. Granted, this is New Orleans, one of the most haunted cities in the world, but this is somehow different. My eyes scan the area for anything that might be suspicious, for anyone I might recognize from the other crime scenes. Really for anything at all. Even as I do, I know I won’t see anything. I shake it off and chalk it up to jumpy nerves.
At the restaurant, Ignatius is already out of the car and on his way to my side of the car before I get out. He opens the door and extends his hand to me. My eyes meet his as I place my hand in his. His expression is tense, his brows are pulled together, and his gaze is hard as stone.
This is bothering him as much as it is me.
“Well, this is not how I’d planned our first night.” Ignatius gives me a cocky grin, it’s tight, but still cocky. And I appreciate it so much.
“I heard how you planned our first night.” And despite everything, the heaviness in the air and the circumstances, the thrill of all his filthy promises cuts through everything and sends a rush of heat through me.
“The night’s not over yet.” He gives my hand a light squeeze. He doesn’t release me as he closes the car door and leads me to the back door of the restaurant.
No, it’s not. I take in a steadying breath as the memories of us fucking like animals flash in my mind.
I think it’s odd Ignatius didn’t head for the front door but directly to the back of the restaurant. As he pulls the back door open for me, I ask, “How did you know to come this way?”
He gives me a crooked grin. “This is the way my mama used to come when she came to Hattie to get her fortune read.” He leads me in with a hand at my lower back. “I’d sit right there and wait for her. Except it seemed a lot bigger in here back then.”
Inside, straight ahead leads to the kitchen and storage room, to the right is a closed door where I smell incense seeping from behind it. I stop and give a slight tug to Ignatius’ hand. “So, you know a little about Tante Hattie then, what she does.”
“Yes, Dominique, I know. I figured that’s why we’re here.” There is no judgement in his tone, no accusation or condescension. His eyes search mine, and I wonder if he knows that’s the reason I was called in to work the cases. Because of who I am.
“Come on in here, child,” Hattie’s voice comes from behind the door.
“It seems she’s expecting us.”
I want to breathe a sigh of relief. I’ll hold off on that until after we finish tonight.
I steal a glance at Ignatius, and he chuckles. It’s a relief he’s not running in the opposite direction, I almost want to relax, but that would be a terrible mistake. Just because he’s aware, doesn’t mean he knows. He turns the knob and opens the door to Hattie’s private room. Not many people come back here anymore, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t respect what’s in here.
It’s a small space, with just enough room to hold what Hattie needs. The room is lined with shelves along the walls and a table with a couple of chairs in front of them. Glass bottles filled with frogs and other creatures swim lifelessly in clear solutions. There are baskets with roots, bottles with oils and tinctures, boxes with feathers and bird claws, plants, herbs, and on and on. There’s an altar with incense and a photograph, a white candle, a bowl of water, and some bread. Hattie is at the candle-covered table wearing a red headdress with a bowl in front of her. She’s holding a mortar and pestle and is crushing the hell out of some herbs.
