Tales of the Meridian Society! (TheCorsair, Madame Mim)

"Murder?" Sam's eyes glittered with sudden interest. "Well, all right! Somethin' Ah kin actually help with!"

"You are an invaluabke member of..." Colin began.

Sam waved him off. "Nah, most o' th' tme, Ah'm yer muscle. Mah job, usially, is ta bust heads while y'all puzzle out the whys an' wherefores of th' situation. An' Ah don't mind - Ah ain't no engineer or scientist or th' like. But murder?" A grin. "Ah'm a Ranger, an' there's more ta that then shootin' an' ridin' an' punchin'."

Colin glanced at the Professor, then shrugged. "I'm no scientist myself," he said, "but I'm glad you're interested. And it will be handy having a skilled criminal investigator..."

"Ahem." Professor Swift cleared his throat. "I believe you mean two skilled investigators..?"

"Nope," Sam interrupted. "Yer inteligence,mostly. Spyin' an' cide-breakin' an' th' like. Takes an' eye fer detail, but Ah done run more'n a score o' murderers down, not ta mention th'other lawbreakers." She gave the Professor's startled face a challenging look. "How many y'all caught?"

"...two," the Professor said, jaw clenched.

"Right, then. Now, tell me more about th' victims..."



"There were no similarities, I fear, exceot that they were legally white." Sir Robert Neville, head of His Majesty's consulate to the Confederate States of America in New Orleans, steepled his fingers in thought. "After the Witechapel Murders, I had thought to..."

"Legally white?" Colin wondered aloud.

"Means they ain't got no Negro or Indian blood in 'em, fer at keast four generations back," Sam said absently, skimming through her copy of the report. "Cassies done got a buncha laws 'bout that, wit' civil rights tied ta blood purity." She looked up. "Y'all sure these are voodoo marks? Ah know a little 'bout it, an' Ah don't reckon Ah ever heard 'bout Voudoun goin' in fer human sacrifice."
 
"She's a law woman, Professor," Anne Marie said consolingly, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her lips. "We are spies. There's no shame in murdering the murders instead of catching them." She shrugged. "And since I doubt our serial killer is a highly respected member of society or a politician--both of whom would have far too much to lose if caught--then I think perhaps we ought to follow Samantha's lead on this one?"

Erik smiled proudly. "Just don't get too excited about murder, Schatze," he warned playfully.

~*~

"You mean you people don't want any sort of blood mixing?" Kieran raised an eyebrow. "Not that I'm judging but...well, I'm judging." As a pirate he'd met people from all over the world and had figured out long ago that regardless of skin color or prayer they were all just people.

"We're positive they were part of a voodoo ritual, yes," Sir Neville said, pointedly ignoring the Fenian. "They normally stick to chickens and the like but every decade or so something like this crops up. These are citizens of the crown, Miss Cavendish, and we cannot allow them to go unavenged."

"And these previous human sacrifices, every decade or so," Erik said slowly, "they were most definitely the product of a voodoo ritual?"

"The perpetrators were never caught," Sir Neville returned. "Your point?"

"My point," Erik said with the air of explaining to a child, "is that perhaps they are not voodoo rituals, but rather somebody trying to make them look like voodoo rituals for the purpose of turning the law against a certain segment of the population. The Negro population, perhaps, given that there are apparently civil rights tied to blood purity here." He arched an eyebrow and pressed his lips into a thin line. He knew first hand about crimes being committed for the sake of turning white Christians against a portion of the population. "What leads have you got, apart from 'perhaps a voodoo cult'?"
 
"An excellent observation, Herr Schmidt," Professor Swift commented. Thsn his eyes flicked to Samantha. "I trust it meets your approval?" he added, just a touch archly.

"Yeah, course it does," Sam agreed. "No reason ta assume a conspiracy, though. Folk try ta blame other folk fer things all the time. Could be one lone man, murderin' women an" makin' it look like voodoo ta throw th' law offa th' scent." She flipped through the file. "Could be one lone crazy bokor, too, murderin' folk cause th' loa or th' voices in his had said to. Or could be the Klan or th' like, but they're more fer lynchin'."

"And your point is?" Sir Neville asked.

"Mah point is,we need more." She shook the folder. "Ain't enough detail here ta tell if'n it was one fellah or a group. Hell, it don't even say if th' victims were raped ir not, which'd be handy ta know."

"That's..." Sir Neville looked taken aback. "That's hardly a fit subject for.. well, to discuss with ladies present."

"Then it's a good thing Sam is here," Colin observed wryly. "She's no lady, she's a Ranger."

"Right. Kin y'all get us access to the local investugators? Ah wanna have a bit o' a chat..."
 
"Then it's a good thing Sam is here," Colin observed wryly. "She's no lady, she's a Ranger."

"And I guarantee you I've done things to make your hair curl, Monsieur," Anne Marie said loftily. "Rape is hardly too indelicate for discussion, particularly when the lives of more innocent women are on the line."

The local investigators didn't have much more than Sir Neville. It looked like it could be a group, or it could have been one man. The only thing they knew for sure was that it was "them Negroes (though they didn't use the word "Negroes") what're into that voodoo horseshit." It was a disheartening start to the case, to be certain. Erik sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"So all we have to go on," he said exasperatedly, "is that racists think it was a voodoo cult."

"That's what it looks like," Kieran agreed with a shrug. "So I suppose we start lookin' round in the voodoo shops, yeah?"

"And where does one find such places?"

"Oh, they're around I imagine," Anne Marie said lightly. "But I imagine there's quite a number of them in a place with so high a Caribbean population as New Orleans. Shall we split into pairs, start asking shop owners about whether they've sold any of the ingredients found at the crime scene or if they've had any strange customers of late?" She'd have been lying if she'd said she didn't want to walk alone with Algie in such a romantic city, but the others didn't have to know that. And she did plan on doing her job. It would just be more enjoyable on his arm was all.
 
"That's not bad," Sam said, nodding her head at Anne Marue's suggestion. "Ah'd recommend y'all make it part o' soundin' like yer innerested in voodoo. Mebbe y'all read a book, an' yer fascinated, an' y'wanna learn more. You kin play the rich French woman pretty easily, after all, an' everyone knows bored rich French women are eccentric." She smiled innocently. "An' th' Perfessir kin be yer utterly bored skeptic o' a husband, if'n anyone asks."

Colin snorted, amused by the very idea. Sam chuckled as well, noy,t missing the flare of the Professor's nostrils or his quick glance at Anne Marie. "An' Kieran? Y'all know lotsa questionable folk. Think y'all kin ask round, find out if th' 'underworld' done heard things so-called 'decent folk' ain't?" She grinned. "Take Cokin fer back-up, if'n y'all kin muss him up enough ta not look like he's git a rid up his ass."

"I hardly have a... a rod up my ass!" Colin protested.

"It's, whaddya call it? Metaphorical?" Sam gestured. "Yer military, an' ain't nobody gonna miss it. Gonna need ta slouch a bit, an' mebbe not talk. Cause you ain't gonna sound - no offense - like y'belong."

"And what will you be doing, Madame Holmes?" the Professor asked.

"Why, Ah'm gonna have Sir Neville here write me a letter o' introduction explainin' why a Kraut an' a perra are buggin th' police wit' questions 'biut th' recent murder o' a British woman." She squeezed Erik's hand gently. "Then me an' Erik are gonna go an' bug th' police wit' questions 'biut th' recent murder o' a British woman."
 
Anne Marie's heart thudded at Sam's suggestion, but rather than glance at Algie and blush like she so wanted to she instead nodded and looped her arm through his, adopting an exaggerated smile and a vapid expression. "Mais oui, but of course I am eenterested in zis voodoo," she agreed, allowing her accent to thicken. "Ze poor are so quaint in zehr leetle folk-reeleegions, nes pas? At home I 'ave no fewer zan six servants 'oo are practicing zees and I find it so fascinating I sink, 'why not see where it comes from, non?'" Her smile dropped and she shook her head. "Those sorts of women are so infuriating, but I can do it. Heaven knows I have enough acquaintances who act in such a way." She released Algie's arm for the sake of propriety. They were, after all, consummate professionals: if anyone knew about their relationship without their telling them, they weren't being discreet enough. If their superiors knew, it could get one of them put on a different team to avoid fraternization, and that wouldn't do in the least.

"Haven't got a rod up your arse?" Kieran snorted. "It's so far up I'm surprised you don't taste iron! I know a few people I can ask. They should point me in the right direction. After we fix this one up." To start he reached over to muss Colin's hair, not caring that he was in uniform and there were dress standards.

"They're just going to say the same thing as before, Schatze," Erik said with a shrug. "But if you think we can get any more information from them then it's worth a try."

~*~

Anne Marie hung on Algie's arm, a parasol in the other hand to preserve her complexion. New Orleans was certainly a colorful city. It reminded her a bit of certain parts of Paris. Unfortunately, she knew, they would eventually have to pass out of the colorful and into the dingy back alleys to get away from the tourist shops and into the real city proper.

"You know, don't you," she mentioned casually, "that it will be easier to keep them from knowing if you didn't take jokes so seriously." She nudged Algie gently then kissed his cheek. "Innocent people do not blush."

~*~

"Mm...not bad..." Kieran circled Colin, inspecting him. Since the men were roughly the same size he'd lent him some clothes before further mussing his hair and teaching him how to roll his shoulders forward rather than standing so ramrod straight like it really was stuck up his arse. "Your arse looks better than mine in those pants," he mentioned ruefully before reaching forward to grope him. "Guess I'm gonna have to take 'em off you...eventually." The pirate smirked, grabbed his ass playfully once more, then tapped him on the shoulder. "Think that's as good as it's gettin'. C'mon."

In the seedier parts of New Orleans Kieran was familiar with a few of the seedier individuals with whom he did business. Mostly it was smuggling goods, but sometimes they would smuggle people or weapons. Looking around before entering, he ducked into a dimly lit bar and sat down across from a dusky man. One of his hands had been replaced with a hook.

"LaFitte, m'lad!" Kieran said cheerfully, sitting down across from him.

"Shane. Didn't expect to see you for another three months." LaFitte's voice was wheezy and low, as though he'd been a heavy smoker since he was a child. His dark, suspicious eyes darted to Colin. "Who's he?"

"New first mate," he said, clapping the sailor on the shoulder. "Last one fell overboard over the Sahara, poor bloke. Been takin' 'im ashore any chance I get, show 'im how we work on land."

LaFitte nodded. "Welcome to New Orleans," he said, though he didn't sound welcoming at all, before turning his gaze back to Kieran. "What can I do for ya? Whatcha sellin' this time?"

"Not really selling. Lookin' for sommat, more like." Kieran leaned forward on the table. "Been hearin' rumors 'bout a voodoo cult. Know anything?"

"What's it ter you?"

He shrugged. "May or may not be interested in doing business with 'em. Voodoos need a lot of supplies that can be very difficult to get."

LaFitte laughed just as wheezily as he talked. "You're tryin' ta poach voodoo business in New Orleans? Giant titanium balls, that's what you've got!" He wheezed out another laugh.

"Sure it's risky. But there's some cults even their normal suppliers won't sell certain things to 'em, right?" Kieran still looked determined and LaFitte stopped laughing.

"You dun wanna involve yerself with those sorts, brotha."

The pirate smirked cockily. "And why not? An entire untapped market starved for what they need. And I can get 'em what they need, can't I?"

LaFitte looked him up and down warily then shook his head. "Your funeral." He took a small pad of paper and a pencil from his jacket pocket, writing down a name and address. "I don't know any o' them creepy-type voodoos personally, but this lady here supplies 'em. The normal ones, I mean. But the weirdos prolly come in too. Mama Mahalia might know where to point ya."

"Thanks, mate." Kieran smiled and took the paper before standing.

"Yeah yeah. Just don't expect me to find you suppliers when you get stuck and can't find somethin' those creeps want," LaFitte grumbled.
 
"Innocent people blush all the time," Algernon countered, in tones like a schoolmaster. "There are no universal tells, indicating treachery or deception or anything else." Then he smiled, just a little. "But your point is well taken."

He glanced around, appreciating the architecture. New Orleans was a lovely city, even here in the poorer sections. He also watched the people, out of personal and professional interest. They were a mixture of sun-darkened caucasians, Negroes, and individuals of mixed ethnic origin who were classified under a bewildering array of tyoes deoending in the percentage of non-white ancestry they possessed. All of them watched as they passed, their wealthy appearance attracting attention, but there was no hostility evident.

"I do hope this 'Mama Calypso' we've been referred to has something of interest, though," he added. "This is a lovely city, and we should take the time to explore it later. But I grow weary of mumbking frauds suuking to flog tourist junk off on us."



The grey-uniformed officer at the desk stared at Sam's credentials, distaste and disbelied on his face. "You, ma'am, are a Mexican Ranger?"

"Yep," Sam drawled, hooking her thumbs in her belt. Since she was giing to have to flash her badge and papers, she'd dressed the part. White shirt, grey trousers, grey stetson, and a grey duster with her badge pinned to it. If she'd been a man, she'd have been expected to wear a tie as well. So, small mercies.

He looked at the small stack of papers she'd dropped on his desk. "And you have been commissioned to look into the murder of a British citizen, by the embassy?"

"That Ah have."

"And this..." he peered at the paperwork. "Doctor Eric Smith?"

"Schmidt," she corrected by reflex. "Erik Schmidt. An' yeah. Both of us. Doin' it as a favor, somethin' mah bosses wan't done fer reasons above mah pay grade."

The officer took a hard look at both of them, then sighed. "I'll let Sherrif Duvernay know you're here. Please have a seat." He gestured at a row of benches against the far wall.

"Ah thank y'all kindly, Officer Romain," she said, tipping her hat. "Sorry fer any incinvenience."
 
"You don't blush unless you're terribly, awfully guilty," Anne Marie rejoined playfully, bumping him gently with her hip. "And if I've noticed then anyone else could have noticed too. Although I suppose I do have an advantage."

They walked at a leisurely pace, enjoying the sights, sounds, and smells of New Orleans. It was interesting to see white and black as well as other ethnicities mix so freely in all parts of the city. Even in Paris non-whites were generally relegated to certain parts of the city, by economic factors if not by legal ones. For a country with so many laws tied to race and ethnicity, New Orleans certainly seemed to be exempt from that systemic racism. Anne Marie looked down at a list she'd been given by one of the first suppliers they'd visited. Most of the names were crossed off.

"Well my love, this is why we are leaving the busier parts of the city," she said lightly, casually steering him down a muddy alley. "The further from tourists we are, the closer to the truth. And if she doesn't work out there is still..." She consulted the list. "Papa Cici and Papa Justify. It's so good to see that women appear to have just as much a hand in the religion as the men do." She smiled approvingly at the list before tucking it away. "He said it was over here. Then we can have lunch at the Cafe Dumond. It's quite famous, you know." She turned him down another dark street where the sunshine didn't seem to be able to reach over the tops of the buildings. She leaned over to kiss Algie's cheek affectionately before stepping into the shop with the faded wooden sign.

To say that Mama Calypso's shop was cluttered would be an understatement. Every available surface was covered: the floors were covered in tables and the walls covered in shelves, which in turn were covered in candles, jars, powders, and other ingredients a practitioner might need, with hardly a few inches between the tables for customers to walk; the ceiling was covered in hooks from which hung more jars and, more often, drying herbs. Around one post was twined an albino python. This Mama Calypso seemed to not believe in the new electric lights everyone was raving about, as her shop was lit entirely by candles and hurricane lanterns. A poor choice, Anne Marie thought, as her shop was made of wood. There was something about the place, something very unlike the others they had visited, which gave her the avoir les foies. Her arm tightened around Algie's, but she looked around the shop before calling out.

"Mama Calypso?" she asked into the seemingly empty shop. "We er...we were sent here by a friend. He said you could give us the answers we seek. Um...Madame...?" It was a small shop, but unless she was hiding under a table Mama Calypso was nowhere to be seen. Gingerly Anne Marie reached out to pet the python. Yes, it was real...and it seemed to enjoy the attention.

~*~

"Heinz-Schmidt," Erik added, bristling that he should be called Smith. That was how his name was translated into English, yes, but he was as much a Smith as much as this Romain fellow was a Salat. Sam seemed to handle him easily, and when they sat down Erik smiled at her. "You're sexy when you're being bossy," he said in a low voice with a conspiratorial grin. His thumb brushed over the ring on her finger before he maintained a more appropriate distance. "Of course, I do hope that attitude won't seep into other aspects of your life," he added, his voice just as low.

When Sheriff Duvernay entered Erik stood to shake hands. "Sheriff," he said politely. "We were hoping we could be of some assistance to you, or that you could be of some assistance to us. We're investigating the recent murders in New Orleans parish. We've been told that they're voodoo-related, but we want to be absolutely certain that we're following the proper line of inquiry."

Sheriff Duvernay sucked his teeth and looked at them for a long, long moment. "Is this some sorta joke?" he demanded.

Erik blinked, politely baffled. "I beg your pardon?"

"I got folks dyin', I'm tryin'ta keep down a panic, and they send me not just a woman but a Mexican woman, an' a Kraut. This hasta be some sorta cruel joke." He glared at them, eyeing them up and down and clearly displeased about what he saw.

"Sheriff I assure you this is no joke. People are dead and we're here to help."

"Bullshit."

~*~

"What you want wit' dem, nohow?" Mama Mahalia demanded, folding her arms across her chest. She was a formidable-looking woman with dark black skin and a substantial bosom. Her large frame seemed to swell larger with indignity at the idea of being associated with the sort of people Kieran was looking for.

"Just trying to help out the less fortunate, Mama," Kieran said easily, leaning casually on the counter and smiling charmingly. "These people have needs too."

"Well dey don' need 'em here," she said indignantly. "Outta my shop! Out!"

"Wait wait wait Mama, please!" The pirate put out his hands placatively. "I'm not asking you to buy anything, we're just looking for names, that's all. Not even the human sacrifice-y sort of names, just...people with more specified needs, yeah? Maybe sometimes they need rarer supplies that you can't always get for them for some reason or another?"

Mama Mahalia looked at them both suspiciously. "Dere's a man on Dauphine Street, goes by Arthel," she said at last. "He do some specialty spells, sometimes needs stuff dat's hardta get wit' all dem trade laws. Don' you go barkin' up dat tree, do, or you have Hell to pay when Calypso find out." She put a finger to the side of her nose and nodded. She couldn't undercut her competitor, but if she could find someone who could then all the better.

Kieran gave her a winning smile. "Thanks, Mama."

"Yah well you di'n't hear it from me, unnerstan'?"
 
Sam rose slowly to her feet. She wasn't a short woman, standing some five foot eight in her bare feet, and her boots added another inch. Still, she had to look up to meet Sherrif Duverney's skeptical gaze. "Mexican Ranger, suh."

"What?" Duverney blinked in surprise.

"Y'all didn't get sent a Mexican woman, suh." Sam's voice was hard and clipped. "Y'all got sent a Mexican Ranger, who jes' happes ta be a woman. An' if'n you cain't figger th' difference, then Ah reckon Ah kin see why y'all might need a Ranger helpin' y'all out."

Sherrif and Ranger locked eyes, standing silent for nearly a minute as they tried to stare one another down. Then Duvernay laughed, slapping his knee as he did. "You got balls, girl," he cackled. "All right, come in back to my office. You and the Kraut'll have some questions, I expect."

"German," Sam said, folding her arms defiantly across her chest.

"All right, if you and the German will follow me?"



"Professor Algernon Swift," a feminine voice murmured. "And the Marquise de Sévigné. To what do I owe dis pleasure?"

Algernon turned at the question, loosening his coat a little as he did. He didn't reach for his weapon, not yet, but he wanted to ensure he could reach it quickly if necessary. "You are remarkably well-informed, madam."

The woman was young and apparently of the mixed-race ethnicity of the West Indies. Had she wanted to, he supposed, she coukd have passed as white. Instead she embraced her heritage, her hair platted into dreadlocks and ornate African-inspired jewelry adorning her slim frame. "Ah," she grinned. "You not goin' to waste my time denying who you are, then?"

"Would there be a point?" Algernon asked.

"No, really," she replied casually, unwinding the python and draping it over her shoulders. "A pity you didn't bring Kieran, though - I promised Jenny I'd look in on her boys, from time to time." She glanced at Algernon, then smiled slyly at Anne Marie. "Look at him, burnin' wit' questions he won't ask. So you tell me, Marquise - how can Mama Calypso help you?"
 
Anne Marie raised her eyebrows when the woman called them by their real names. They hadn't been using their real names in the other shops, of course, so there was no way one of them could have run ahead to tell her they were coming. When she mentioned Kieran she cocked her head curiously to the side. He was known in the city of course, but she doubted that a man like him would make his relationship to a respectable organization of the law widely known. He had never mentioned a Jenny in their sessions either, but she doubted that was one of the questions Mama Calypso would answer for the time being.

"We're looking for someone who might be one of your customers," she said, deciding it best not to play games. If she already knew who they were then there was little chance she would buy the "bored socialite and long-suffering indulgent husband" routine the others had. "We hear you carry rarer things, ingredients for spells and rituals not many others can get their hands on. Calabar beans, for example." She tried to sound casual, but the paralytic found in two of the victim's stomachs were not anesthetics; they would have been completely aware of what was going on, able to see, hear, and feel everything but unable to move. "Tormentilla, or slippery elm," she added. "Tormentilla isn't all that uncommon in the UK, I know, but it isn't quite as common in the Confederacy and I imagine quite hard to come by given the recent economy. Is there anyone you can think of who came in asking about these things, or perhaps other ingredients not commonly found in most sacrifices?" The words "human sacrifice" had seemed to scare off one or two of the others when she'd been playing the bored socialite; she doubted it would scare off Mama Calypso but she was still wary of using those exact words.

~*~

Dauphine Street wasn't in the most destitute area of New Orleans, but it certainly wasn't in the French Quarter either. Kieran knocked firmly and an older man perhaps in his sixties opened the door. He looked suspiciously at the pirate but didn't say anything.

"Arthel?"

"Who wantsta know?" he demanded. Usually white men knocking on black folks' door meant trouble.

"A friend." Kieran smiled charmingly and hoped it worked. "I heard you do spells--specialty spells, I mean--and I heard you might be able to use some help finding what you need."

"I got a lady gets me what I need." Arthel began to close the door but Kieran stuck his foot in the jamb.

"I can get it to you cheaper."

Arthel looked him up and down shrewdly before opening the door a little wider again. "I'm listening."
 
"Slippery elm," Mama Calypso repeated. "Good stuff dat, but sometimes good stuff be put to bad purpose. An' you be lookin' for de ones usin' it, hm? It's a funny question for de curious rich lady an' her bored husband to be askin', ain't it?" She gave them a taunting grin, as if daring them to reply, and sstroked the head of her albino python. "But I know a few names, don't I?"

The statement hung in the air. Finally, Algernon shifted a little. "And what are you asking for them?"

Calypso laughed. "Not money, Mister Bored Husband. The answer to a question. When you have de names, what will you do wit' them?"



Sam flipped through the report Sherrif Duverney had handed her, scowling. "This is th' same report Ah saw at th' embassy."

"We provided them with the official reporr, yes," Duverney said, looking at her over steepled fingers. "As requested. What are you looking for?"

"Coroner's findings," Sam repeated. "Autopsy, if one was done. More detail-"

"It's..." To Sam's annoyance, he glanced at Erik before continuing. "It's not something we want made public."

"Ah'm hardly th' public, suh," she replied.


"And..." he shifted uncomfortably. "It's hardly appropriate for a lady to-"

"Ah'm a Ranger, suh," Sam reminded him in a controlled voice. "Not a delicate little..."

Duverney glanced at Erik again, and Sam warred with herself over punching him. Finally, he nodded once to himself. "Very well," he sighed, standig and retrieving a new file from a cabinet. "Be warned, though. It is... shocking."

Sam took the file and began reading through it. As she did, Duverney continued to speak. "She was like the others. Death was from blood loss from other injuries."

"The slashes across her back," Sam said, tapping a photograph of badly torn skin.

"Yes." Duverney frowned. "Whipped to death like an animal, by those niggers. They raped her, too. Repeatedly."

Sam looked up. "An' how go y'all know it was th' blacks what done it?"

Duverney snorted. "The voodoo, Miss Cavendish. Filthy jungle religion for filthy jungle beasts."

"Ah unnerstood," Sam asked, "that white filks practice it too?"

"Hardly any," answered the Sherrif. "Odds are it was a gang of pagan niggers that drugged and raped her. Then, when they were done forcing themselves in her, they beat her to death."
 
Anne Marie shifted her weight a bit nervously. She knew that there was probably someone from one of the shops they'd already visited running ahead of them, warning others, but she still couldn't shake the feeling that Calypso was more than a little intuitive about them. She wasn't extorting them for cash, but Anne Marie knew better than most that information was usually much more valuable. The answer Calypso wished to be paid with may not have been one Anne Marie wished to part with.

"We'll bring them to justice," she answered truthfully. "Slippery elm was an example, but it seems likely these people used it for something nefarious. Calabar beans, however, are much rarer and we hear you can get most anything. If you value justice I pray you give us a list of your customers who've bought such things. I will answer any question you wish to the best of my ability."

~*~

Whenever the Sheriff glanced at Erik, he gave him a mildly quizzical look over the rim of his pince-nez. He knew, of course, why exactly the Sheriff kept looking at him, but it was best to treat such men like the ignorant beasts they are; as though they are the ones out of place, even in their own office. Although Erik was of a slightly more delicate constitution than Sam, he made a point of exaggerating that a little as he looked at the pictures--covering his mouth with a handkerchief--just to put Duverney in his place. It was self-deprecating at best, but he did so enjoy proving men like him wrong. Even if they weren't romantically involved, his money would have been on Sam in a fight any day.

"I don't understand," Erik said with an air of forced patience. "This is gang rape and manslaughter. Apart from the herbs used to drug her I don't see any sort of connection to voodoo at all. And anyone could have gotten those herbs. It proves nothing in regards to the assailants' race or anything else." He looked up at the sheriff, light glinting off of his pince-nez as he held his gaze steady and said solemnly, "And I assure you, Sheriff, that the only filthy beasts I have ever had the misfortune to encounter came from no jungle and were as white as you or I."

~*~

Kieran nodded as Arthel rattled off the sorts of ingredients he used in his "specialty" spells. The toxins found in the victims weren't among them. Still, perhaps this wasn't a dead end. He leaned back in his chair, studying Arthel intently for a few moments, trying to figure out how to get to his point without spooking him. The only way forward that he could see was the direct way.

"I've got good contacts in Nigeria," he mentioned casually. "Whole buckets of Calabar beans just waiting to be shipped off to destinations unknown. Don't suppose you'd be interested in anything like that?"

Arthel's eyes narrowed and he looked at the pirate for a long moment. "Whatchoo wan' wid dem Calabar beans nohow?" he demanded suspiciously.

Kieran shrugged. "Just looking to turn a quick profit's all. Bloke I know who grows 'em doesn't seem to understand just what exactly he's sitting on. Demand's high in the islands and other parts of Africa, just wondering if there's any sort of market for that here is all." He turned on the charming smile again and Arthel had to think for another long moment.

"You go downta Mama Cecilia in the French Quarter," he said at last. "Her'n her husbin' Jean-Luc workin' sommat that queer voodoo. Don't no one come from one-a their meetin's quite the way dey comes in, iffin ya get m'drift. I hear they use Calabar sometimes, dunno fer what though."

Kieran gave him a little salute and pushed himself out of his chair. "Thanks mate. I'll getcha those other things as soon as I can, right?" They shook hands and Kieran stepped out into the sunshine with Colin. "Well...took a bit of a roundabout way, but there we are I suppose."
 
"Justice," Mama Calypso said slowly, as if tasting the word. "Justice be a slippery thing, yes? Even more slippery than elm, sometimes. But doin' th' right thing? That be even harder than justice, don't it?" She grinned, eying them speculatively. "Bot' o' you know that, I guarantee."

"Madame," Algernon began.

Mama Calypso held up a hand. "Hush you, shadow-man. Here what I gon' do. I give you two names, if you promise you do th' right thing by them. By both of them." White teeth flashed in another smile. "Don' promise me no justice, though. Justice is a thing can be bought, by rich an' greedy men. Plenty o' women can testify to that, yes? An' plenty o' grievin' husbands, too. But th' right thing? Ain't for sale, is it?" She took a seat in a crudely handmade chair, looking for all the world like she was upon a throne. "Well, what you say?"

Algernon stared at Mama Calypso, jaw hard. Her words were surely coincidence, but they struck close to home. Closer than he liked. "I have never," he said slowly, "been for sale, Mama Calypso. And I believe in justice, not merely the declarations of the courts upon guilt or innocence. So you have my word that I will, as you say, do the right thing for these two names." He paused. "Whoever they are." Another pause. "Fiat justitia, ruat caelum."

She looked at him for a moment, then glanced at Anne Marie and smiled. "Your first name is Cecilia Prudhomme, Mama Cecilia she be called. A mulâtre, or mulatto if you wanna call her what the Confederates call her. You find her in de French Quarter, her an' her husband Jean-Luc. He's sacatra, but the white folks just call him an 'uppity nigger', for bein' rich an' educated. You might like them, him bein' French an' all."

Her gaze returned to Algernon. "Your second name is Raphael Chaney, a sang-mêlé though he'd deny it if you said it. He be rich too, born an' bred here in th' Big Easy. Family goes back to before the Yankees bought Louisiana. Lives out on a big old plantation house in Harahan, close enough to th' city to keep up wit' business."


Sherrif Duverney's eyes narrowed a little at Erik's comments, but he kept his calm. "Fair question," he said after a moment. "Here. Let me show you something. A picture we didn't put in the main report, because we're trying to keep a lid on things." He dug through his filing cabinet and withdrew a smaller folder. From it, he tossed another daguerrotype onto Sam' slap. She stared at it, puzzling over the [img=https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/e/ed/VeveBrigitte.svg/450px-VeveBrigitte.svg.png]strange design[/img].

"That's..." She frowned. "Ah've heard o' these. A... a baby, ain't it called? An'... is that carved into...?"

"Into a woman's back, yes." The Sherrif frowned. "And it's 'vévé', not 'baby'. Voodoo symbol, this one associated with Maman Brigitte. One of the death gods of voodoo." He folded his arms as he leaned back in his chair, staring at Erik. "We're keeping it quiet, Mister Schmitt, because this city is a powder keg. And because good Christian folk know that most of the practitioners of voodoo are damn swamp niggers. That's how we figure that it was probably blacks that raped and murdered this English girl. And the half-dozen others. Because they all been cut up like that, Mister Schmitt. Before they were murdered."

Sam sighed, and stepped into the breach before things escalated. "Makes sense as a' startin' point then," she agreed. "Y'all got any leads yet? Ah' didn't see nuthin' 'bout fingerprints, but Ah reckon' they'd be some. We use th' Bertillon System in Mexico, but Ah unnerstan' y'all follow th' Brits an' use Galton's Details?"

"We don't use a fingerprint registry," Sherrif Duverney scoffed. "Not since the Yankees proved it didn't work back in '03. Can't trust them."

"The West case?" Sam asked, startled.

"Yep."

She opened her mouth, ready to argue. Then she made herself stop. She was here to find a murderer, not to reform the Confederate legal system. "Right. So, any leads?"

"Yeah. We're investigating a mulatto named Cecilia Prudhomme, lives in the French Quarter." Resting his chair back on all four legs, he leaned his elbows on the desk. "Married to a rich French nigger with family in Haiti. Uppity type, still mixes with the poor trash out of the swamps, and we know she's involved in voodoo. We don't know if she's behind the killings, but we'd bet money she knows who is."
 
Mama Calypso's words hit far too close to home. There was no way she could possibly know...but then why had she chosen the words she did? Anne Marie squeezed Algie's arm gently but otherwise gave no sign that she had been disturbed. When he assured her that they would do the right thing in regards to both names she gave them, Anne Marie nodded in agreement. The sort of justice she was concerned with didn't come from the courts, anyway. Of course, Calypso probably knew that already.

"That woman..." Anne Marie said once they were back out in the street. She shivered despite the balmy spring air. "She was enough to almost make me believe in that sort of thing. I know that in the light of day it seems silly but in there..." She shook her head. "But no matter. We have a lead, so let us clear our heads with a lovely lunch, oui?" Taking Algie's arm she began to steer him back to the French Quarter and Cafe Dumond.

~*~

"Well, we had a productive day!" Kieran announced cheerfully, flopping onto a couch in the sitting room. The hotel had graciously provided adjoining rooms for three of their guests (Algernon and Anne Marie had been careful not to bring up sleeping arrangements and had quietly reserved only three rooms), with a very large shared parlor between them. "Even got a name for ya!"

"As do we," Anne Marie said, seating herself at the writing desk.

"Well if it's the same people the Sheriff suspects then I would say this is a solid lead," Erik joined. "I don't suppose the name you've been given happens to be Cecilia Prudhomme, does it?"

"Spot on, Rick!" Kieran pointed at him and nodded. "Well, I dunno about Prudhomme, but some woman named Mama Cecilia. Married to some Jean-Luc fellow?"

"That is one of the names we were given," Anne Marie said with a nod. "So it seems that this Cecilia woman would be our best lead."

"But the Sheriff was running into troubles because her people do not talk to outsiders," Erik pointed out. "And we are all about as outside as an outsider can be."
 
"Mebbe we are," Sam observed from the sidebar as she poured herself a drink. Water, with some mint and lemon and ice in it. She'd considered coffee or brandy, but she was feeling a touch queasy and had decided that something gentle would be best. "But thet could work to our advantage." A brief hesitation, and then she poured Erik a mug of tea as well. Damned if anyone'd think she was a serving girl, but it wasn't as if everyone didn't know about their relationship by now. And it wasn't as if Erik didn't fetch her things from time to time.

"What do you mean?" Colin asked, sipping his own drink. Gin and tonic, in his case. "How could that possibly be an advantage?"

Sam perched herself on the loveseat next to Erik and handed him his mug, then sipped her water. "Well, see, most o' y'all won't be able ta make this work. But..." She sipped again, then looked around. "See, voodoo's kinda fashionable, right?"

"Is it?" Colin asked.

"Oh, yes," Algernon confirmed. "Quite the rage on the Continent, right now. Along with other forms of mysticism and spiritualism and all that rot. A bit of a reaction to the rapid developments in science and technology and the recent war, I suspect. Mars and Darwin have shaken traditional religious faith, and now people look for something to replace it with. Surely you've been invited to a seance or two in your time?"

"Invited, yes," Colin confirmed. "But if I'm going to hold hands in the dark, I'd rather not do it with a group."

"Anyway," Sam said pointedly. "Y'all ain't th' right sort, mosta y'all. Scientists an' soldiers an' generally worldly, skeptical folk. But me an' Anne Marie? Well, we're ladies." She laughed at that. "An' everyone knows we go in fer mushy spiritual stuff, an' leave all th' hard work o' thinkin' ta th' menfolk." Another laugh. "They'd believe it, if'n we showed up a'wantin' ta learn about this stuff."

Colin nodded at that. "It would make an excellent cover, yes. But - and I mean no offense, Sam - how would you explain your association with Madame LaMonte? The two of you hardly seem like you would be on friendly terms with one another, if we didn't already know the two of you."

Sam shrugged. "I reckon y'all are right, Colin. Ain't like Madame LaMonte would be likely ta associate wit' th' like o' Sam Cavendish, Tejas Ranger. But..." She squared her shoulders a little, lifting her chin and regarding the room with an imperious air. "She might, I suppose, have made the acquaintance of Samantha Cavendish. Of the Dallas Cavendishes." She grinned impishly. "And I have kept up my eloquition lessons, don't you know."

The impish grin dissolved into something that would have gotten someone punched if they described it as giggles. "Lessen y'all got a better idea, Anne Marie."
 
Erik watched Sam curiously as she made them drinks, the dying sunlight from the window glinting off of her ring--her ring!--before taking his tea with a murmured thanks. When she declared that voodoo was fashionable and Professor Swift explained, Erik nodded.

"I actually went to one, just to see what it was like," he admitted with an embarrassed smile. "Some of the rigs were very clever indeed. I wish I'd had an opportunity to look at them without embarrassing my hostess; they could be useful in future cases."

Anne Marie sniggered when Sam mentioned that they were women, who left the hard thinking to the men. When she suggested that Madame LaMonte might associate with young Dona Cavendish she nodded. "Mais oui," she agreed, ignoring Erik choking on his tea at the mention of elocution lessons. "But you must dress the part, and that beautiful dress was ruined in Berlin, was it not? Anyway, it would hardly be agreeable for this sort of a thing...but so would denim." She considered Sam for a moment over the rim of her drink, pursing her lips in thought. "Dona Cavendish if I didn't know you better I would almost suspect you of looking for an excuse to go shopping." She smiled a little and took a drink before setting her glass down. "I would lend you something of mine of course, but unfortunately I'm rather taller. I'm sure there is no lack of suitable clothing for a voodoo ritual in New Orleans for a woman of your standing, wouldn't you say?"
 
"Shoppin'?" Sam laughed. Why, Ah do declare that Ah love at shop, Madame LaMonte. Mah daddy - Don Cavendish - does so enjoy spoilin' his little girl." With a snort, she sipped her water. "Least, that's how th' few society ladies Ah had at talk wit' sounded. Think it'll blow mah cover if' Ah let mahself talk like Ah gotta brain in mah head?"

"I don't think so, " Colin said. "It isn't as if you'll be attending a formal ball in hopes of securing a good marriage."

Sam leaned into Erik at that, grinning. "Done that already, Ah reckon," she murmured.

"And even if that were your cover," Colin continued, "intelligence rarely frightens the aristocracy. Not the ones that make a good catch, anyway. Besides, you'll be posing as someone with an interest in the occult. Doesn't that require a modicum of intelligence?"

Sam shrugged. "Reckon that depends on the person, like anyone else." She finished her water. "How does one dress at try an' learn voodoo?" She looked at Anne Marie. "Ah still got that vest Ah wore get Christmas, an' a bulk skirt ta go wit' it. Think that an' a blouse would work, or do y'all reckon we outta get dressed all fancy?"
 
When Sam leaned into him Erik pinkened and hid his pleased grin in his mug. He still couldn't quite believe his fortune in convincing such a formidable woman as Sam to marry him. Rarely did he show it in front of their colleagues but he was still on cloud nine about the whole affair. His mother hadn't been pleased, of course, but fortunately it was his father in control of the inheritance. Even if he wasn't, damn the inheritance and all that came with it if that meant he couldn't marry her. With the wedding only a month away he had involuntary bouts of giddiness at the mere mention of it.

"I'm not entirely sure what one might wear to such a thing," Anne Marie admitted with a frown. "We must look the part, but not out of place. What you describe sounds appropriate, but the blouse must be silk. Also I will lend you some of my jewelry, that we might look like we are trying to hide our wealth but not quite succeeding. If all else fails, money talks."

That evening once they were dressed Anne Marie considered Sam for a long moment. There was something amiss but she couldn't quite put her finger on it. Giving up on trying to figure it out she disappeared into the room she discreetly shared with Professor Swift and returned with a lavender pearl jewelry set.. A matching brooch on the jacket completed the look and she nodded, satisfied. There was still something off, but the jewelry helped.

"There," she said with a smile. "Poor little rich girl has tried, but not succeeded at, blending in." Anne Marie herself wore a dark green dress with her hair wrapped up in a matching silk turban, as was the emerging fashion in Paris. She had foregone most jewelry, but opal studs glittered in contrast to the turban to give her away. Instead of fur she opted for a long, black wool coat to complete the illusion of poorly concealed wealth. Looping her arm with Sam's she steered her toward the door.

"How do we look?"

"Beautiful." Erik leaned in to kiss Sam's cheek. Kieran rolled his eyes behind his back.

"Insultingly poorly disguised," the pirate assured them. "Very blackmailable. I'd extort you."

Anne Marie smiled and nodded firmly. "Good. And you've found a suitable place to keep an eye in case something should go wrong?"

"And an extraction route," Erik added. "Just give the signal and we'll get you out."

"Bon." Anne Marie smiled at Sam and took a deep breath. "Let us waste no time in selling our souls to Mama Brigitte, shall we?"
 
"If that don't beat all," Sam observed, turning a little to examine herself in the mirror. "A poor girl, pretendin' ta be a rich girl pretendin' ta be a poor girl. Ridiculous, ain't it?"

"How do we look?" Anne Marie asked.

"Beautiful." To her mixed delight and annoyance, Sam felt her cheeks redden at Erik's compliment.

"Insultingly poorly disguised," the pirate assured them. "Very blackmailable. I'dextort you."

"High praise indeed," Professor Swift said dryly.

Anne Marie smiled and nodded firmly. "Good. And you've found a suitable place to keep an eye in case something should go wrong?"

"And an extraction route," Erik added. "Just give the signal and we'll get you out."

"We'll be on foot," Colin remarked from a side table, where he was busy oiling his heat ray. "So we don't attract attention. But we'll have two automobiles parked nearby." He inspected the quartz focusing crystal closely, frowned, then set it aside and chose another. "So even if you can't reach yours, well have escape routes."

"Bon." Anne Marie smiled at Sam and took a deep breath. "Let us waste no time in selling our souls to Mama Brigitte, shall we?"

"One moment." Sam examined her purse, then tucked her .45 and two extra clips into it. "Girl can't be too careful, can she?"


275px-New-orleans10.jpg


Sam tried not to rubberneck as Anne Marie drove along the neon-lit length of road. "After London an' Paris an' Berlin, you'd think Ah'd be used ta sights like this," she said ruefully. "Guess Ah'll always be a poor country gal at heart." Tearing her gaze away from the street, she turned to watch Anne Marie drive. "Anyhow, looks like we're here. 817 Bourbon Street. Y'all ready for this?"

The townhouse in question was a three story affair of whitewashed brick, with a porch on the third floor that overlooked the street. Sam closed her door, then waited for Anne Marie to join her on the sidewalk before heading up the three steps to the green-painted door. It wasn't until after she'd knocked smartly on the wood that a lady should use the doorbell.

After a moment, the door opened. "May I help you?" asked a pretty slip of a woman with smooth coffee and cream skin and a bob of curly dark hair. Her age was hard to gauge, but if pressed Sam would guess mid-30s.

"Hi," Sam said with a warm smile. "Ah'm so terribly sorry to disturb y'all, but we were hoping to meet Mama Cecilia. Is she available?"
 
Anne Marie smiled when Sam lamented that she would never get used to cities like this. "Well, if you and Erik are to live in Berlin I imagine you will get used to the new electric lights rather quickly," she suggested lightly.

On the sidewalk Anne Marie looped her arm with Sam's and strode smartly up the steps. She winced a little when Sam knocked, but supposed that wasn't the biggest faux pas she'd ever made. It might even lend credence to their cover. A mulatto woman with a fashionable bob answered the door. Anne Marie was a bit surprised; perhaps it was the "Mama" honorific, but she'd expected Mama Cecilia to be older and somewhat...larger. As it was she must have been a few years younger than Madame LaMonte herself and was thin and quite pretty. It made her curious about this "uppity" husband of hers, if he were anywhere near her age and so wealthy as they were.

"Hi," Sam said with a warm smile. "Ah'm so terribly sorry to disturb y'all, but we were hoping to meet Mama Cecilia. Is she available?" Anne Marie squeezed her arm, but Mama Cecilia spoke before she could cut in.

"And who might be asking?" Cecilia's expression remained a welcoming smile, but there was now suspicion in her eyes.

"Two fellow travelers," Anne Marie said, squeezing Sam's arm again to tell her to be quiet. "We hear you are simply the one to meet for seekers of the divine truths. Death comes for us all and we perhaps more than most need a guardian." To every good lie there was some truth. Mama Cecilia looked them up and down for a moment.

"And what makes you think a guardian can be found for you here?" The priestess was still suspicious, but a tiny bit of tension released from her shoulders.

"Madame," Anne Marie answered seriously, "I have met the Devil face-to-face and nearly died of thirst. If there is any protection from such a fate it is through the loa and Mama Brigitte."

Mama Cecilia considered them for a long moment. Her shrewd eyes looked them up and down again, this time lingering on their jewelry for just the barest of seconds. They'd been judged to be tourists, clearly, but earnest ones and ones that could pay if she decided such a thing was appropriate. Finally Mama Cecilia opened the door wider and stood back to let them in. "So you're scared," she said as she led them down the dimly lit hall. She was petite, shorter than both Madame LaMonte and the Ranger at her side, but carried a powerful aura of authority about her.

"Not scared so much as awakened," Anne Marie answered. The house was tastefully appointed and the decor could have been found in any home in Paris. "There are very few moments of true clarity in life, Mama Cecilia, and when one has them one must do something about it."

"True enough." Cecilia led them into a parlor where half a dozen others waited, making idle conversation and drinking or nibbling on hors d'oervres. "If you will wait here," she said, "there are others we are waiting for."

Anne Marie made herself comfortable on a setee with Sam before soon finding herself chatting with an older black gentleman who seemed very interested in Paris...and all points south. Across the room an Indian woman looked at Sam for so long it might be considered staring. She wore a strange mix of the clothes of her people and what white people might consider acceptable, and her face seemed to ring a vague bell in the back of the Ranger's mind, but couldn't be quite placed even as her leaf green eyes bored into her. Finally the woman's attention was called by someone else, but while they waited her eyes kept darting back to Sam every few minutes.
 
Sam had met a lot of Apaches in her career as a Ranger - one had even gut-stabbed her - but she'd never really sat down to talk to one socially before. Most of her interactions had been more of the peace-keeping kind, tense negotiations as she worked to keep settler and native from butchering one another. It was nice to be able to just talk, without any lingering implicit threats.

Of course, it helped that the Apache - whose "white" name was Jackie Sparrow - was clever and funny and Goddamn sexy. Like, "introduce her to Erik" sexy. Enough so that she nearly forgot why she was there, right up to the moment Jackie asked.

"Well, uhm..." Sam's mind raced as she tried to remember. "Well, Ah'm mostly here out of curiosity myself," she said. "Anne Marie is simply fascinated with the subject, and just had to come. She insisted she wanted to meet a real practitioner, and she asked me to come along." A shrug. "And Ah decided Ah may as well."

"Well," a soft voice interrupted, "I've never thought of my faith as a sideshow attraction. But I hope your visit will be worth your time."

Sam flushed a little, ducking her head. "Ah... Ah'm sorry..." she stammered. "Ah didn't..."

Cecilia Prudhomme - the pretty woman who'd answers the door - took a seat in a plush wing-backed chair and smiled. "Didn't realize vodou was a religion?"

"No... Ah mean Ah..."

Mama Cecilia lifted an eyebrow. "You've probably heard all about it, right? Deviled worship, and savage practices, and human sacrifice?" She laughed sweetly at Sam's obvious embarrassment. "Non, non, don't be ashamed. So many people believe that. At least you and your friend seek to know the truth. Even if it was out of mere curiosity."

Still smiling, she glanced at the powerfully-built man who had been monopolizing Anne Marie's attentions. "Jean-Luc? Would you be a dear, and open a bottle? Talking and learning are such thirsty tasks." As he rose, she turned her attention back to the two women on the couch. "Now, where shall we start..?"
 
Jackie was surprised to find the sweet little blonde on the couch--Samantha, she thought though she hadn't really been paying attention to her name when they'd met--was also from Mexico, though not really the same parts. She lived a little outside Tejas territory in the desert, in the ancestral lands Mexico had promised them in exchange for "coming quietly," while Samantha claimed to be from Dallas. A vision had sent Jackie eastward looking for answers and she'd just sort of followed the wind after leaving home. There was something about this girl--woman--that struck her, like a familiar face though she'd never seen her before. She'd thought Mama Cecilia held the answers and had been struggling to reconcile her old faith with this new one, but especially when the firelight shone on Samantha's face at a certain angle Jackie thought perhaps she was the answer she'd come looking for. Leaning over she tucked an escaped bit of hair back behind the debutante's ear and smiled warmly, but her thoughts were interrupted by Mama Cecilia's return.

"It is more than mere curiosity, Madame," Anne Marie protested upon hearing Mama Cecilia. She knew she was just playing a part, but even so it chafed her to think that anyone would think she'd come to watch a religious ceremony for less than sincere reasons. "I have lost faith in the traditional religions of my country. I seek solace and guidance, and though I've only read a little I do believe that I can find those here. Although I do admit I brought Samantha with me because I get rather...er...nervous when meeting new people for the first time."

"You did not seem so nervous." Jean-Luc's voice was deep and smooth and Anne Marie felt goosebumps raise on her arms when the back of a single finger stroked the side of her neck momentarily before he disappeared to fetch them a drink.

"Now," said Mama Cecilia, "where shall we start?"

"I...well I hardly know where to start," Anne Marie admitted with a nervous chuckle. She made sure to absently twist the fabric of her dress nervously. "But...there are no human sacrifices? Like I said I've read books, but many of them are hardly what one would consider reliable. A few made mention of...well...of virgin sacrifice for this sort of spell or of sacrificing a strong young man for that sort of a spell. I was nervous that perhaps those rumors were true." She tilted her head curiously. This was what they'd come for, after all, and Cecilia's tone seemed to indicate that human sacrifice was not on the docket for this evening. Unfortunately they would have to stick out the rest of the ceremony to avoid seeming suspicious, but at least they would be able to cross this name off of their list.
 
"Certainly not," Mama Cecilia huffed, expression a little amused. "Oh, certainement there is a place for animal sacrifices in certain rituals. Although those animals are usually cooked and eaten afterwards." A brief shrug. "The death of the animal is sanctified to the loa, but humans? Non."

"That is not entirely truthful, Cecilia," Jean-Luc answered as he returned carrying a tray upon which sat five glasses and a bottle. "There are..."

"Jean-Luc Prudhomme!" she snapped, exasperated. "We are speaking of what decent folk practice, not the black magic of the bokor." The last word was pronounced as if she would spit. "When you teach catechism, do you speak of the perversions of devil worshipers?"

Jean-Luc set the tray down and began pouring drinks. "Of course not. But the bokor serve the loa as well, albeit with both hands, and it is only fair..."

"Catechism?" The word slipped out of Sam's mouth, and both Cecilia and jean-Luc looked at her questioningly. "Y'all are... Catholic?"

"Of course," Jean-Luc said, handing the glasses around. "Why does that shock you?"

"It's just..." Sam groped for words. "Don't th' Bible teach that..."

"That you should have no other Gods before God?" Jean-Luc finished.

"Yeah, that."

Cecilia laughed, not unkindly. "Whether you call God Bondye or Our Father, God is God and there is none greater," she said. "Does God worry if you pray to Saint Michael instead of Papa Legba for intercession, or to Oshun instead of calling upon Our Lady of Charity? Truth is truth, and not all truth is found in the words of the white man's God."

Jean-Luc laughed as well. "But the white man's God is as much God as any other conception of the Great Mystery."

"Truth," Cecilia agreed, sipping her rum. "But you did not come to merely hear me speak, did you? Vodou is a living, breathing religion, and the truth of it is to be found in the doing. Not in the dry recitation of lessons." She caught Anne Marie's gaze. "If you truly wish to learn, come with us. There is a fete tonight, in honor of Papa Ghede. Would you come and see for yourself, and learn?"
 
Anne Marie was also surprised that they considered themselves Catholic, but thought it might be rude to mention. Fortunately, Sam mentioned it instead. She paid close attention to how they spoke of bokors and of God, and it seemed to her they were mostly harmless.

"Whether you call God Bondye or Our Father, God is God and there is none greater," Cecilia declared.

"Amen," Anne Marie murmured solemnly. She was surprised that they were invited to witness a ceremony--that was the only conclusion she could draw about what a fete was--and nodded. "Mais oui, for I am eager to learn. But please...what is a bokor?"

"A dark priest," Cecilia said in a dark tone. "They claim to serve the loa with both hands, but they have no conscience. Reanimation, human sacrifice, astrals! Non!" She seemed to find this last particularly distasteful but Anne Marie had no idea what an astral might be. "I will not teach you about the ways of the bokor."

"Nor do I want to learn, madame!" Anne Marie objected, looking properly horrified. "But there are none of these in New Orleans, are there?"

"Well there's a couple--" Jackie started, only to be silenced by a harsh look from Mama Cecilia.

"Let us talk of it no more," she said firmly, "and go to our worship."

Anne Marie followed behind the others only to find themselves at a cemetery. She exchanged a concerned look with Sam, but followed wordlessly. Mama Cecilia weaved between the headstones as though she could have done it blindfolded and the others followed carefully behind. There was a small but powerful fire when they arrived to the back of the cemetery in a small clearing between the last of the headstones and the beginning of the swamp forest beyond. Others were tending to the fire and at least a dozen and a half were milling about, apparently waiting for the ceremony to start. Feeling rather shy Anne Marie sat on a log a little separated from the others, thinking that she was only meant to watch and not participate in what was to come.
 
"I did not see this coming," Colin complained. "And I can't say I'm happy. Are you sure we shouldn't move in?"

"Samantha and Anne Marie have yet to signal any concerns," Professor Swift replied. "Until they do, or until we see them threatened, we allow them to continue." In truth, though, he was more concerned than his words let on. The Prudhommes had led the two women out of New Orleans, parking at an old cemetary a half hour's drive distant. The mauseoleums and grave stones provided adequate cover, and the women could retreat to their own automobile, but he didn't like it. Unanticipated events always made him cranky.

"I put it at eighteen people, not counting Sam or Madame LaMonte," Colin continued. "Agreed?"

"I counted nineteen," the Professor said. "They keep moving, though, so an exact countvin the darkness is difficult."

Colin nodded at that, then peered around a tomb at the figures dancing in the firelight. "What are they..."



"...doing?" Sam asked, nervous and curious all at once. There were nineteen people here, not counting her or Anne Marie. Bad odds if things got ugly. But she was confident that if it went that way, she coukd get herself and Anne Marie back to the car.

Not that things looked like getting ugly right now. Folk were just drawing on the ground, making an elaborate pattern with some kind of white dust, or drumming and dancing. Least, that's what she assumed they were doing. It was mire if a writhing, spinning, whirling thing in time with the drums. Not like any of the dance steps Erik had taught her.

"Cecelia prepares the veve," Jean-Luc answered. "And we all dance, dance to honor Papa Ghede until he joins us and the fete reaches its peak."

"And th' booze?" Sam asked, watching the bottles circulating among the dancers.

"Papa Ghede loves the taste of rum," Jean-Luc laughed. Then he caught hold of Sam and Anne Marie, his hands seeming to dwarf theirs. "But you came to learn, not talk. Come and dance!"

Feeling self-conscious, but wanting to maintain her cover, Sam let herself be led out into the firelight. She tried a few hesitant steps, watching the ither dancers and feeling awkward. And overdressed in her hat and jacket, because mist of the dancers had been dancing fir a while now, men discarding shirts as they went and women untucking and tying off blouses as they went. There was a whole lot of bare skin, black and white, on display.

After a little effort she began to find the rhythm. She just swayed and stomped at first, then added a few experimental twirls as she tried to emulate the other dancers. There weren't any formal steps, she realized, just movement. And that made it easier to mive among the others, spinning and swaying and clapping. Soon enough she had tossed her hat and coat aside, finding them too hot and restrictive.

By degrees the tenor of the dance changed. Bodies brushed against one another more, hands lingering as they made contact. Two of the women had discarded their blouses entirely, dancing bare-breasted in a whirl of skirts. Sam hadn't gone quite that far, but her silk blouse was draped over a tombstone and niw she danced wildly in skirt and chemise, arms and shoulders bare. In the center a black man with steel-grey hair strutted wildly, thrusting his hips and laughing as he caught Mama Cecilia and pulled her close.

That seemed to be the signal for something. All of the dancers seemed to partner or triple up, and she had a quick glimpse of Jean-Luc pulling Anne Marie against his hard black bidy. Then someone spun her, and she found herself kissing a stranger as unfamiliar hands cupped and molded to her breasts through the thin fabruc of her chemise.
 
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