Moonlight on the Bayou (The Story)

[Scayde]

The rap on the door came at precisely ten o’clock. Dolores rose from the divan where she had been seated near the window. With a look to her father she placed her hand on the crystal doorknob and opened the path to her fate.

“Le bon de soir Monsieur, Thank you for coming. S'il vous plaît. Won’t you join us?”

She stepped back and let the door swing open wide, guiding and indicating to du Reves the table where they would dine. The waiter stood to the side preparing the Saumon Fume d’Ecosse. Austrian crystal caught the golden light of the ivory candles and reflected the warm ambiance over the well-appointed room. The supper was being served as they entered the room together.

Gratinée à l’Oignon

La Salade Composee

Veau Citron

and of course

Feuillantine de Crustacés

She paused in the fourier giving her father time to greet their guest.

Julien Peltier approached du Reves, his hand outstretched to meet the object of his concern. Dolores could not help but be impressed at the resemblance of the two men. Bridges du Reves was slightly taller; his hair hung in an ebony cascade, a cape that draped his broad shoulders like a mane. Julien was slighter of build, with silver now appearing at his temples and interspersed throughout his own dark curls. It was the eyes. There was no mistake.

These two men were famille.

“Monsieur du Reves, bienvenu ! I am pleased you have decided to join us. We have much to discuss”

[Scayde]

“Oui, bien sûr. A la question alors.”

With an outstretched hand Julien indicated the table set before them.

“Parlons s'il vous plaît pendant le dîner.”

The discussion was polite and hushed as the dinner was being served. Julien’s demeanor changed however as soon as the staff left the suit.

“Monsieur du Reves, I thank you for your patients. I apologize for the secrecy, but I believe you will understand why I took such precautions as soon as you have heard what we have to say.”

Dolores carefully poured two bourbons for her father and du Reves.

“As my Daughter has told you, this is a matter of Famille. You see Bridges, if I may call you Bridges?”

Peltier waited patiently for du Reves' nod of assent.

“Your father and I were in business together. More than that we were twice cousins. Our Mothers were sisters. Our fathers were half-brothers. Your Great-GrandPapa’ raised both sons as his own, but one of the boys was not his natural child. This bastard child was my Papa. He was a Peltier”

“To make matters more complicated; there is a recessive trait carried by the males in our famille and passed from father to daughter. This trait is usually silent in the males, but is manifested in the females. The only time this is not the case is when a male who carries the recessive gene, breeds with one of the females who carries the trait. The resulting child would be an aberration. “

“We know that our fathers and mothers were distant famille. I have long believed that my father’s impure blood was Dolores’s saving grace. Your father did not have that to count on. “

“You are his only son, but not his only child. You have many sisters, but due to the circumstances, measures had to be taken.”

Dolores watched as du Reves silently sipped his bourbon, running his thumb along the rim and back, his eyebrows furrowed, his skin noticeably flushed.

“Monsieur, s'il vous plaît, Her voice was soft but confident as she delicately laid her hand over his. I know this is all very sensational. I am sure it comes as a shock to you that you are not alone. You do indeed still have family, not only Papa and myself, but sisters as well, but we have only begun to explain to you the importance of this matter. Your life is in danger, and we have so little time.

Bridges du Reves looked up squarely into the eyes of Julien .

“I am not a patient man. Your story has le son de fantaisie, but you and your daughter have my attention, for now.”

“Oui Monsieur. It does sound like fantasy..and will even more so as I continue, but I assure you, everything I tell you is truth, and Fr. Prudh’ome has the Church records to prove it.”

“The trait carried in our family is known as le Loup Garu, Children’s tales are filled with stories of the man-wolf that comes in the full of the moon…….”

du Reves stood and lay his napkin across the chair.

“I thank you for your hospitality. The meal was splendid. With a polite nod to Dolores he added, “And you were correct, the Feuillantine de Crustacés was worth my time.” Then looking back to Julien he concluded, “Unfortunately, the scary story was not. Au revoir.”


Julien did not rise, did not look up, but silently pulled a yellowed receipt from his coat pocket, unfolded it, and laid it on the table.

“Bridges. Have you ever seen a document resembling this? And do you know what it is?”

du Reves looked down at the scrap laying on the table.

“Of course I know what it is. It is a receipt for animals sold in Asia. One of my Fathers.”

“For children Bridges. Your Sisters. Children that your father sired by Nuns of St Cristoff. Daughters everyone. Spirited away by me under the cover of night to protect the family from any who might disclose our secret.”

du Reves' head swam with the memory of the ivory box he so recently discovered, and how he had convinced himself that he had been mistaken. The Cartel…

“What do you know of the Cartel?”

Julien looked up at the younger man.

“I see you are familiar with this then…Bon. It will save time.”

[The Z]

The napkin contained all of Remy's directions. There was some "mystical" bog between the main city and the Chateau du Reves, but it didn't appear to be much of a problem. Following that was a brief description of the actual manor although the information was far less descriptive than the blurb on the surroundings. As Logan stepped outside, pondering the cost of equipment he needed to purchase, he quickly became chilled by the all too sudden breeze.

For some reason being outside in New Orleans was uncomfortable for him. Normally the fresh air was rejuvanating - a refreshment - but the moody city seemed to feel him out and run him through. But he shook off the feeling as much as he could and quickly tried to find the way back to l'Hotel de Saint Louis. The shadows and darkness with which he had lived most of his life in seemed to be rejecting him, throwing him into the light, as if he was unworthy of associating himself with the creatures of the night. Logan couldn't help but feel that he was being watched; he constantly shoulder-checked and sped up. Snapping out his switchblade eased the tension somewhat. But the instinctive feeling never left him completely.

Finally after what seemed like eternity, l'Hotel de Saint Louis loomed before him, a gargantuan entity that took on a life of its own. The switchblade now rested comfortably in his pocket and he climbed the stairs, the building looming larger each step, until finally it stood in front of him in its entirety, an image of grandness and antiqueness; a place where there was money to be had if one knew how to pull the right strings.

Logan's wallet contained a mere twenty dollar bill. There was no way he could afford a gun or for that matter, any tools of trade. Most of his gear had been confiscated at the airport and the last thing he wanted to do was try and rob a mansion with a switchblade and twenty dollars. That would be a quick way to get himself killed if he ever considered suicide. Grinning at the thought he began to head for the guests' rooms intent on becoming a little richer by the nights end.

He stowed away to the restaurant first and managed to steer a trolley with some meals on it away from the delivery boy who became "convieniently unconscious". Upon knocking on the doors he found most of the rooms occupied by tourists trying to get some sleep before their next "big day" in New Orleans. When they woke and questioned him, he simply answered: "Room service," and "Excusez-moi. Wrong room." Not that he actually knew if he was pronouncing "sorry" properly in French, but no one seemed to notice. Finally he found an unoccupied room.

The one fault of the hotel's security was that the cleaning women were too easily charmed and ended up inebriated with their master keys ripe for the picking. Though Logan abhorred having to sleep with a woman he barely knew, the tradeoff in money hopefully balanced the disgust factor. The thought was quickly cleared from his mind as the room didn't seem to accept the master key. What the.... He began studying the lock. The key went all the way in, but it wouldn't seem to turn all the way. Jiggling it didn't help. The keyhole, upon further inspection, didn't seem to be of American design, which surprised him. In fact it most closely resembled an Aztec lock he'd seen a few years back, which meant that if the wrong key was inserted into the mechanism then......

"Crap..."

Looking at the small pinprick on his index finger made his blood run cold. The Aztec temple he'd visited was filled with poison traps. Especially the locks on important doors.

[Yshania]

Without a word, Marie had touched the weeping mother's brow before laying the corner of the shawl gently over the newborn infant's face and standing away from the distraught woman's sobs. The infant had not cried at birth, its silent entry a tragic crowning to the traumatic labouring. This consistency was all Marie had come to rely on over the years to break another woman's heart...and have her start to let go. Quietly, as before, she left the room...clasping the tiny limp and pallid body to her breast. Her years of midwifery had hardened her to loss, but this was a deeper loss than most...the loss of faith, the loss of innocence, the loss of a future, crowned by the curse of generations...not Marie's loss at all, except the responsibility of participation…yet still...her gentle touch of the mother's brow was sincere in its intention. Never did she stop to feel for these women, always did a part of her stay with them...eroding her resolve slowly, bitterly and painfully...as she carried their babies away, her heart and soul boiled when she thought of those knowingly perpetuating the grief...

The corridors were always colder, the shadows always deeper. The family portraits seemingly took on a life of their own and leered at her, teasing her, and gradually over time wearing down her purpose. Always when she walked this route she felt perversely adored, and equally hated. She understood her historical knowledge bequeathed her this responsibility, and that it was her initial innocence and fear that had kept her toeing the line...she knew also that to stray could now mean certain death, but she had grown with this family and her honour depended on her remaining loyal, whatever her consternation.

It had been some years now, the cobwebs hung deep and brown, defying gravity. The gas lamp spluttered out a few times before gaining its yellow glow, dimming enough to create an alternative reality...Marie goaded her grief to enter this new state of mind…purpose. Gently she laid the infant on the receiving table, its lace dusty from age, but ever present. As she stood back, she closed her eyes, whispering a prayer for the fragile life before her that had softly begun to wriggle its denial…

“Dear Lord forgive me” she began to utter her usual “for wishing to support life where lore would have me smother it. I fear…..”

Her words were cut short as the gas lamp died without a flicker…moments later dozens of candles flared as the begotten infant screamed…the first to cry…

[Scayde]

Dolores reached up and gently took du Reeves' hand, indicating for him to re-take his place at their table. Her voice was soothing, almost melodic.

“S'il vous plaît Cousin, Sit with us a bit longer and I shall explain all that we know.”

As du Reeves allowed himself to be led back to his chair, Dolores began to unravel the threads of the tapestry that was unfolding.

“Le Cartel”, They are all men of the Church that have pursued us since the 1600’s when we were first discovered in France.”

She looked down to her fingers where they rested out-stretched on the table. Her voice quiet and subdued.

“ Our eyes, they always give us away…. They killed your parents you know."

She raised her chin and faced him.

"Now they are seeking you."

“They have been relentless in their mission to exterminate us all. The Women are most vulnerable, because the trait is manifested in them much sooner and easier than the males. But it is the male that carries the gene. You and Papa are the last, or so we believed. Recently I have been having visions of a child, a male. This child, I believe he is your son.“

Du Reeves slid back in his chair and looked to each of them.

“Well, there you go, I have no children. I think this concludes our meeting.”

“Do not dismiss me Monsieur. At this point, rather he is a child of the past or the present, I know not.”

Dolores leveled her gaze at de Baise, reaching deep inside his mind and wrapping hers around it as one would hold a child against its will.

“Everything I tell you tonight is to insure you live past tomorrow. Confront Marie, Cousin. She has suppressed a memory, but Papa has made the path for her to remember. She will confess this thing to you if you ask her.

We have been made aware that one of the daughters is among your women. We are not sure which one it is. We know that your father was very fond of this, Alba Des Glaces when you were yet children. Papa tells me that he always showed an interest in her famille, especially her Mamma and the child. He tells me that you were playmates from the days of the crib, and that your mother was not particularly fond of the girl. All of this has led us to believe that she may be the one, but this is only speculation. We need proof. You must obtain that proof. If she is your half sister, then the child will have to be destroyed.”

Dolores remained dispassionate as she watched the colour drain from du Reeves' face.

”One more thing. Tomorrow night, you will meet your killer. I have seen this. There is no question. His name is Logan. I do not know if you will survive the meeting. Wait for me tomorrow morning in the forier. I will have something for you. I pray it will be of some help.”

Dolores rose from her seat and bent to kiss her father softly n the cheek.

“Le bon de nuit Papa , I feel weak. I believe I have finished. Oui?”

“Oui ma Fille.” Julien returned his daughter’s kiss goodnight.

She then turned to du Reeves.

“Le bon de nuit Cousin. Papa will see you out. I must retire.

With that she left the two men to address the questions she was sure du Reeves would have.

[The Z]

The waves of panic which had initially inundated Logan began to subside as his wits returned to him. If the venom was as potent as it was in the temple, then he only had around fifteen minutes to live. Well, twenty if his endurance and perseverence didn't fail him. His head began to throb and already he was feeling feverish. Glistening sweat rolled down Logan's temples as he stumbled backwards against the opposite wall and tried desperately to come to a solution. But there was no immediate way to solve his dire problem. No one in the US would know how to cure ancient Aztec (or Aztec-like) poison, not the finest doctors around, no one.

Some way to die. A type of lock I learned inside out years ago is about to kill me. So much for that glorious "going out with a bang" dream of mine...

The first of many searing pains ran through his blood, wracking his body and forcing him to his knees. He groaned and fell to all fours, his head tucked between his arms like a dog's tail between its legs. He closed his eyes and could only think about the temple.......no....

Logan had finally disarmed the mechanisms and opened the tomb door. His crew peered anxiously into the chamber and were met with the ever-glorious glow of gold. Without thinking, the riches tore them from their minds and pulled them into the pit of greed. Most were veterans of the trade, but the uncontainable joy of completing what they'd set out to do overcame them and they sprinted into the breach. Into the snare Logan had set for them.

Machine-gun fire stormed the tomb from the darkness and Logan took cover behind a pillar. Down the crew fell, ripped apart in a hail of gunfire. Their blood stained the gold, stained the ground, and stained Logan's conscience. As he watched from his perch, a single-member from his now dead team approached him with the gleam of murder in his eyes.

"Logan, you double crossing bastard. I should've known. It was obvious. The airport, the restaurant - everything. There was no way we could've whipped so quickly through this temple unless you knew your way around. You'll pay...sooner or later......you'll pay...."

And with that, the man collapsed, his last breath taken and his last curse uttered. The assasins emerged from the shadows, the barrels of their guns still smoking and found Logan smirking at the dead. Their leader hailed him.

"We've done your dirty work. Now for our pay."

Without looking at him, Logan hooked two items from the stash to his pack - an ancient spear and an ornate shield, the keys to a greater stronghold elsewhere. He glanced at the leader.

"Take the rest of the gold. I have no need for it."

And with that he turned from the room and left the temple. As soon as the stone entranceway was before him, he casually placed two plastiques at choke points in the arch.

Just as the group of assasins were done packing their newfound riches into their packs, an explosion rocked the entire temple. Shocked, they ran to the entrance, and found themselves sealed in, left to die with the men they'd murdered just minutes before. They'd rot and join the thieves in haunting Logan's sleep, never letting him forget that he singlehandedly slayed a dozen men without ever firing a shot.

The men's harsh glares fell upon him. All of them, craving revenge in the halls of hell on Logan. He couldn't look up anymore and he finally collapsed to the ground, the last of his strength sapped. Vision blurred between delusions, chaos, and reality. Logan could feel the supernatural world all around him, an electric sensation that raised his hairs on end.

The hells were near and he spied the man who had cursed him in the temple approaching him again, bleeding in agony, forever shattered by the act of betrayel. The deadman opened his lips as if to speak to him, but then he began to change into the shape of a slight woman, beautiful in a haunting manner. Logan couldn't believe his eyes. The woman drifted -floated- towards him effortlessly, her hair falling neatly behind her, her full lips beckoning him.

At least I'm gonna die in the presence of a pretty woman

He stared at her, until her eyes stared back. Hollow and cold, almost magical eyes penetrated him and petrified him with fear. She was feeling him out. Her eyes betrayed her age. She was no ordinary woman. The eyes knew too much, and yet showed none of the knowledge obtained. As Logan finally drifted into the darkness and the encantations of those who would repay him for his sins, for some reason the only thing that came to mind was that her and Remy Cyr were the same blood. The same breed. The thought was too much for him to bear and his eyes finally slid shut.

[Scayde]

du Reeves' head swam with the things he was hearing.

Such utter nonsense! Werewolves! Children sold as property! Not since a century ago had this occurred in my family ! He was certain! Yet...so many unanswered questions...

"Tell me, Monsieur, how is it that one of my women could have been pregnant, and I not know? Especially this one you mention....This Alba Des Glaces?

I have not seen her in years...Once, we were very close..but she disappeared three years ago. I loved her well...But it would seem she had other intentions. Regardless...I have been told that I am without the ability to have children by any woman. How could this miracle have taken place?

This is so...fantastic in every way. You give me all this fantaisie which, if even to be believed simply leads to more questions. Thank you so much for the invitation and the opportunity to meet famille. I have been alone in this world for much of my life. I do wish the circumstances of our meeting had been different...As it is, I must assume that you and your lovely daughter here are but charlatans whose rouse, I am not willing to find the draw to.

Please forgive my abrupt exit. I must prepare for a busy day tomorrow...apparently to meet my death.

Bonne nuit, monsieur."

[Scayde]

The black car pulled away from the curb…Fr. Pru’ Dhomme turned to the men in the back seat.

"Le Messieurs ... With tout respectent. Are you sure this ‘Logan Wright’ is adequate to go against Bridges du Reeves? I am not at all comforted by the notion that Julien Peltier and that abomination he calls a daughter have been snooping around…too many years..too much at stake..The Church would not be pleased if any of this were to become fodder for the next Oprah expose’."

The taller of the two men in the back seat looked up from his notes.

“ Père , suivez juste votre d'instructions I am sure the Holy Father himself will contact you with the highest of gratitudes.

Fr. Pru’ Dhomme supressed a smile and genuflected his agreement.

Of course Your Eminence… Vous savez mieux
But the young man knows nothing of the matter…

The Cardinal did not look up again to answer, but replied.

“Nor should he”
With a sigh he added
“Driver, could you do something about that noise? It seems our cargo is beginning to stir.”

[The Z]

Spires vaulted from the building, adding to the already impressive decor. Stained glass windows were scattered about depicting biblical events, prophets, and most importantly, martyrs. Logan looked about and while surveying the cathedral he glanced at his holstered Beretta. Unconsciously he unsheathed it and proceeded into the maw of sanctuary; but sanctuary would not be able to protect his prey from the coming wrath.

Nobody crossed Logan Wright and lived. Nobody who'd ever found the hidden and trapped rage within him had ever lived. To most he was an easy going rogue - a buffoon. To some he was an avenging demon, a man possessed by some inner fire that only burned when provoked from within the deep recesses of his spirit. Even he didn't know where it came from. He only knew that once this concealed power was summoned, it would not leave until it had tasted blood and reveled in its unholy waters. He hated it. But he could not stop it.

"Jacques, you know your time has come," barked Logan, his voice a tone lower than usual.

A Frenchman turned from his prayers at the alter and faced his killer.

"I see the avenging 'angel' has come to try and purify the lands by ridding it of my presence," Jacques Richard replied, smirking in contempt, "Just running from you these past few months has improved my l'anglais. But...Je n'aime pas l'anglais and I hate you even more for chasing me across the lands."

"You knew what would happen if you stole those artifacts from me. I'm surprised you even managed to figure out how to use the Aztec keys. I'd be impressed if you hadn't crossed me and 'relieved' me of my dear possessions. But the booty doesn't matter anymore. Only your rotting skull hanging off my doorknob will appease me."

"My dear Logan, you know you can't win. Your true calling will drag you into the abyss - into the hells - and at the moment you're so ignorant of it that you'll be dead before you figure out why."

The pistol was now aimed at Jacques' skull.

"It's a good thing you haven't given me a reason not to kill you, dog. 'Cause it'd be a shame that I don't get to wipe your blood off the alter. Sinful blood ain't good in a church pal."

Jacques simply smiled.

"You're just lucky you can kill me unlike the rest of this world."

"The rest of the world must be bad shots."

"Oh please, spare me the tasteless humor. This is pathetic. I'm to be slain by a slayer who doesn't know his gift, his 'holy powers'. What has the world come to? Look at you? Do you know why you're here? Why you've been able to track ME, the mythical untrackable thief?"

"What the hell are you talking about? Powers? Gift??? I'm here for the gold and if you haven't figured that then---"

Jacques was now roaring in laughter.

"The next time you kill one of my kind, and the time after that, you'll be one step closer to finding your destiny - and curse. Before you know it, you'll be knee deep in my kinds' blood, and when the time is right and you've drank your share of death, you'll die too at the hands of the immaterial. Killing has its consequences..."

A bullet punctured Jacques' head before he could finish his speech. Logan returned his gun to its holster and as the uncontrollable anger died down he closed his eyes and shuddered. He made his way over to the dead body and looked at his victim. Jacques had funny teeth, kind of like Remy....

Who the hell is Remy? Wait a second, this happened before I ever went to New Orleans...what's going on here?

Logan suddenly found himself standing, watching Jacques pray again, in exactly the same position, only it wasn't Jacques. It was another of his kind, with the elongated teeth and the glowing eyes. But he was Native American. The man didn't even speak, he only turned and grinned at him as if to mock him, though the reasons for that were beyond Logan's comprehension.

The Beretta was no longer at his hip though. In its place was a six-shooter which would've been used in the early 1900's. Putting his doubts aside, Logan wrenched it out of its holster and emptied the gun into the man. But the man turned towards him and morphed into another of those beasts with the teeth and eyes, this time dressed as if he were in Napoleon's army. The six-shooter was suddenly a musket but Logan was now in too much shock to worry about his weapon.

Again, the strange being was shot again, only to change to another. Sweat dribbled down Logan's forehead. His heart pounded in rage and angst at the same time. How could it not be dead? What was going on? And why did his weapon keep getting more and more antique? Again and again, he killed the other only to be confronted with another. And now Jacques' words crept to the forefront of his mind. Before you know it, you'll be knee deep in my kinds' blood...

The ground was smeared and tainted with the being's blood. Soon, it washed over Logan's feet, the result of death after death after death and before he knew it the thing was right in front of him, grinning and glaring at the same time.

Logan raised his weapon, a final effort to beat back the invincible foe, an ornate sword encrusted with engravings in Old English. A radiant aura emitted a small glow around the blade and the writings seemed to hold brilliant power. The glint of it seemed to push his enemy back a bit, enough to give a split second slice to the head ending its life for the final time. This time it didn't rise.

He collapsed onto the blood stained floor gasping for air, exhausted from the whole ordeal. As he reached up to wipe his brow, a disconcerting oddity from his peripheral vision stunned him. Chainmail enveloped his hand as if he were a knight from the middle ages. Upon looking at his chest he found a crest emblazoned on the cloak that covered his armor. He reached up to his head and found a helmet that encased his entire head. Before he could figure out why he'd become this way a voice penetrated his ears, dropping him to the ground in pain. It resonated almost incessantly from the heavens and it ripped into his head.

You WILL learn their nature. And you will crush them as I will destroy you when your destiny is fulfilled...when your ancestral curse has been wrenched from you, taken from your body when it becomes too weak to carry the burden.....you will learn...or you will die....

Logan blacked out from the pain and the sound of a car greeted his flailing mind.....

[Scayde]

du Reeves decided to walk home that night. His head reeled with the things he had learned., or had he learned anything at all? Who were these people who had suddenly appeared claiming to be his nearest kin, and what could be their motives. He could not dismiss the uncanny resemblance though. No...He had to admit to himself , if nothing else was true, it was beyond dispute that these were indeed famille C’etait vrai…

But this bit about le Lupe Garu...Werewolves were a thing of children’s nursery rhymes. Yes, he remembered the stories of how sa famille had been pursued and hunted, killed and tortured by the Church since the days of the inquisitions. Accused of Witchcraft and consorting with wolves, but so many families were. He had always dismissed them as folk stories, nothing more. Could there have been any truth to any of it?

He turned the corner down St Charles's Avenue and made his way along the street, stepping in and out of the dim gas lit street lights, barely noticing the black limousine which had turned the corner just ahead.

Marie...Dolorosa had mentioned something about seeking Marie. The thought that he might have a child ! He had never thought it possible that he would ever be a father, and to be told that he had a child by Alba Des Glaces ! How much did these people think he could stand ?!?!? Le chagrin etait presque insupportable…. The only woman he had ever truly loved, … la seule femme…son amour the one he had pinned every dream on, the one who had left with not so much as an explanation, only goodbye. The one who left his arms, his home, his promise to make her his wife leaving behind every diamond and jewel he had ever given her, Everything but the one thing which was most valuable. …Son coeur…,His heart. And that was something which he could never regain

[Scayde]

Dolorosa sat quietly and watched as her father lit the candles in the cabinet that served as an altar in their apartments. A tall obelisk served as a poteau-mitan, or pole through which they could communicate with the Gods and Spirits.

He hummed softly as he leafed through the old yellow photos, finally selecting one of a young man and woman. The clothes dated the picture somewhere in the 70’s. She appeared to be a new bride. Her golden hair cascading over her shoulders were a stark contrast to the man’s ebony locks. She recognized the features of his face. So familiarly like her own father. She new this had to be Bridges’ parents.

They had dinner, a sumptuous meal. Each of the dishes sampled was given special meaning by the task at hand.

Julienne then set about creating the Veve. A sacred pattern that would help him invoke the aid of the Loa. In this case, he wanted the help of Ayza, or the protector. He did not know if there was a way to forestall the events Doloros had seen, but he hoped to try.

The finely milled flower was carefully poured out in an intricate design on the hardwood floor. Great skill and care was taken. As the design neared completion Doloros rose from her chair and went to the open window. She extended her delicate hand and plucked a white pigeon from the ledge. Carrying it close to her breast, cooing to it softly, the young Mambo soothed the frightened bird, stroking it, petting it, calming it such that its last minutes would not sour its spirit. Then, upon reaching the two crystal bowls sitting on the alter, she deftly and with practiced precision popped its head from its body like the cork from a bottle, draining the creatures blood into one of the shallow fixtures.

Julienne rose from the Veve, took the photo from his pocket and burned it in the other crystal basin. He picked up the limp remains of the bloodstained pigeon, quickly cleaned and prepared it and held it in the fire, roasting its flesh. Laying the meat aside, he returned the bones to the fire and reduced them to cinders, then picking up a pestle ground the ashes to a fine powder, mixing the image and offering to which he added he remaining blood.

Julienne closed the circle and finished the design. Picking up his drum he began to play and chant as Doloros swirled and danced to the hypnotic rhythm. Spinning and whirling, her black skirts flying out, her long black curls swinging about her head like a veil, she preformed the steps and movements as her ancestors had before her. The rapid beat of the drums mixed with the soft pounding of her bare feet on the wooden floor. Her skin glistened with the perspiration of her mounting ecstasy. Her beautiful lithe and graceful form became a whirling dervish as the dance creciendoed. Faster and faster…whirling and spinning…Lost in the ecstasy, then suddenly!

She fell to the floor.

Julienne was the first to speak.

“In whose presence do I sit?”

She rose from the floor and strode to the poteau-mitan
Her voice was deep and transformed when the answer came.

“Whom did you wish to invoke? Did you not call to Ayza? Did you not trust I would answer?”

“Then you are Ayza.”

“Yes, I am.”

Picking up the basin she brought it to her lips and drank of the offering waiting there, then turned and faced Julienne.

“Why have you called Ayza?”

Julienne answered with the deference he reserved for the Loa.

I have need of your protection. One of my famille is in danger. There are those who wish him dead. It is beyond my power to assist him without your help.

He lifted Dolores’s limp wrist over the bowl and gently slit the side of her hand, letting her blood drip into the basin to mix with that of the offering. She stood motionless and transfixed as he dipped a white silk scarf in the thick crimson liquid, then rolled it, and the mixture tightly into a small drawstring pouch and slipped it into her pocket. He bandaged her wound and kissed her forehead.

You have done well Ma Fille.

He caught her just as her knees buckled and she lost consciousness.

[The Z]

Logan awoke to a throbbing migraine and blurred vision (not that it mattered, as the trunk was pitch black). The ropes that bound him constricted him to a point where he was essentially paralayzed from the neck down and the gag was tight enough to cramp his jaw. The idea of busting out crossed his mind for a moment before being dismissed as quickly. A simple fact: it's pretty much impossible to open the trunk of a car from the inside and it's beyond impossible when tied up. There was no escape from this one. It looked like the end of the line.

Dreams normally flew through him as rivers flow; there for a moment, displaced by another thought. But his most recent one was livid and lucid. Surreal even. Everything felt uncomfortably real: the air, the blood, the sword. It was the first time he'd felt genuine sweat dripping off his head in a dream. Logan was sure the feeling would pass though, and eventually he'd forget the nightmare. Must've been some pretty potent poisen to cause vivid hallucinations.

The engine's rumbling stopped. Car doors slammed shut and footsteps approached the trunk. Logan swallowed his fear and prepared to meet his fate.

[The Z]

Moonlight flooded the compartment and hands grasped Logan. Before he could get his bearings he felt himself being thrown to the ground. Rain fell around him, soaking anything exposed, penetrating his core. And as his eyes began to adjust to the dim street, the air seemed to breathe ice all around, chilling him and his captors. This aura trailed a strange figure who moved quickly down the road, oblivious to Logan's presence.

The shortest of the three captors hauled Logan to his feet and whispered tautly, "You will murder that man and then you shall have your riches!"

Of the other two men, one looked to be prying into Logan's thoughts. Logan glared but the man seemed indifferent. The other captor was livid and he began to whine to the one who held Logan by the collar.

"Pru'Dhomme, we are wasting our time. This man is street trash - he has not been raised upon proper foundations. Blood cannot take precedence over skill and practice."

"He has had practice. He is more than qualified to slay one measely old man."

"Bah! One, insignificant criminal killed by his hand does not give him enough merit to dispose of a renowned member of that clan! This fool is nothing!"

Finally, the tallest and most enigmatic one spoke.

"Enough mon freres! Monsieur Wright, forgive my colleague's impoliteness. This is a very sensitive assassination and he is rather unconfident in having an 'outsider' do the job."

While saying this, he untied the gag on Logan, allowing him to speak, a liberty that was taken immediately.

"How much for the hit?"

"Pardon moi?" replied the tallest, surprised at the promptness of Logan's request.

"I'll kill anyone you want, provided I get fair cash. The more important the guy, the more dough you cough up."

The man chuckled slightly, muttered something about 'blood' and then spoke ominously, "His estate shall be yours. His mansion, his treasures - all antique rarities that could be sold on the black market and support you for the rest of your life. We simply must have this man eliminated."

"That important a guy eh? And with that many assets? You just made my day pal! What's the dead man's name?"

"Du Reves. You may already have heard of him and his chateau."

A prickling sensation itched up Logan's spine. Something big was about to hit New Orleans and he was caught in the middle of it. Remy, the poison, the dream, the woman he passed in the hotel - there had to be something connecting them. He was sure that the one who wanted him to steal from the mansion didn't belong to the same faction that the mysterious Frenchmen belonged to. Banshees wailed in his head that unraveling the city's dark innards might be too much for any mortal to handle.

The rain came down heavier and the air slipped to an even colder level. A part of Logan told him to run while he still could and that this place held some inherently evil secret, waiting to snatch him from the darkness and drag him to the abyss. But early retirement and money was always tempting to the not-so-logical side of him. One hit, just one more hit and the game's over. No more blood, no more backstabbing. No more suffering.

With that, the man handed Logan a dossier and stated, "This has all the information you need complete with a list of places to obtain equipment as well as the account information of a bank account holding ten thousand American dollars."

Before he could reply, the men acknowledged him and quickly filed into the car.

"Oh and Monsieur Wright?"

"What?"

"He must be dead by tomorrow night or you will be 'attended' to by us."

Logan swallowed and nodded, beginning to feel fear for the first time in a long while.

One hit, just one more hit and the game's over. No more blood, no more backstabbing. No more suffering.