She considered performing a full service to attract possession by a loa, but that would take too long. No, she thought, time for mojo, the worldly magic of voodoo. Mojo was not meant to directly influence the spirits, but necromantic mojo could, with skill, cross that boundary.
Marie quickly set up her mojo conjuration. With bottles of sanctified salt she drew voodoo symbols on the hearthstones, scattered fresh chicken’s blood with the preserved claw of a black fighting rooster. This would supply the physical connection when she activated the charm with the same blood.
The charm itself was her pride. She'd searched years for these personal bits of Jean Laffite; a twist of hair, a sweat-stained collar, and the best, a bloodied bandage. She'd hoped to save this charm for some later need, but here was the best time and place.
Excitement prickled down her back as she dripped blood into the charm. This was the most difficult and esoteric mojo she'd ever worked, but Marie raised the small cloth bag above her head and spoke the prayers with a wash of confidence. Something good was about to happen. She placed the mojo bag onto the makeshift altar.
"Jean Laffite, I call to your spirit. Jean Laffite, I summon your presence. Jean Laffite. . ."
Water blasted from the fireplace, scattered the bits of the altar and knocked Marie down even as she snatched at her charm. Jamie panicked as the wave shoved furniture and other loose junk toward her. She scrabbled uselessly at the door for an instant, then the latch released and she threw open the door to run out of the haunted place.
The elder Marie Laveau stood frowning outside the door, mojo stick in hand. Called Widow Paris these days, she was the reigning Voodoo Queen of New Orleans and Jamie's great-grandmother. Even at the age of eighty-two Widow Paris was still the most feared and respected woman in the city. Fearful as Jamie was of what was behind her, the sight stopped her in her tracks.
With strength belying her years, Widow Paris grabbed the girl's shoulder and yanked her bodily from the water's path. The wave rolled over the doorstep and onto the cobbles of Rue Bourbon, bringing with it a sea-bottom stench of sulphur, fish, and rot.
"Did I tell you to not get dirty, girl?” Eyes wide, Jamie nodded. “Where is Marie?" Widow Paris' voice was velvet-covered iron. Under the dark, Creole eyes of her great-grandmother, Jamie could only point a shaking finger into the former blacksmith's shop. Spent, the wash of water slowed to a trickle.
"Naturellement." Widow Paris sighed. “Bébé Jamie, I want you to stay here, comprenez?" The mojo stick tapped the ground three times, charms tinkling and clattering. Widow Paris pulled an amulet of owl's claw from the stick and placed it in Jamie's hand. "You will be safe as long as you hold this to your breast. Now, stay." Widow Paris turned and stepped carefully through the muck.
"Yes, I mean, oui, grandmaman." Jamie clutched the amulet and watched Widow Paris enter the old blacksmith's shop. Boisterous music from the ongoing parade caught Jamie's attention. The marching band struck up "If Ever I Cease To Love." A certain young, handsome fellow was bound to fall in love with her tonight, and that was the very song she hoped they'd be dancing to. Though scores of revelers clapped and cheered just yards away, Jamie felt very alone.
Inside, rippling blue-green phosphorescence let Widow Paris see well enough to pick her way through the wrecked room. Everything light enough had been pushed against the walls by the brief flood, but some ironmongery remained. The glow was centered at the fireplace, and something stirred there.
"Marie? Mon enfant?"
I will have my revenge. The words burbled and plopped, distorted as if spoken under water.
"Who dares speak to speak to me so?" Widow Paris spoke strongly as she moved to where she could now see Marie sprawled. Better any attention on herself than her helpless daughter, she thought.
Betrayers. No justice, no mercy. Only revenge. A ragged, skeletal figure rose from the hearth and stepped toward her. Backlit by the sea glow, it wore a torn and sopping captain's greatcoat, with a wide hat side-pinned by a feather. Strips of rotted flesh and clothing dangled, dripping. Empty, black eye holes faced Widow Paris, and fleshless fingers clutched a rusted saber. Revenge.
"I am the voodoo priestess Marie Laveau." Widow Paris shook the mojo stick. "Tell me who you are or risk my wrath!"
Laveau? Marie Laveau? The apparition stopped and lowered the sword. Do you not know me? I am Jean Laffite.
Widow Paris snorted. "Jean Laffite? Non. He was a gentleman, unlikely to act in this fashion with ladies. Or present himself in such a crude manner."
I am dead, a walking corpse. I have little choice in the matter. Despite his protest, the figure stood tall and tugged at his lapels with fingerbones.
Reaching Marie's side, Widow Paris was relieved that her daughter seemed without serious injury, though clearly stunned. She placed herself between Marie and the apparition.
"If you are truly Jean Laffite, then you already know that only spirits wander. As a spirit, how you appear is your choice." Widow Paris looked him up and down. "Surely this is not how Captain Jean Laffite chooses to look?"
Mes excuses. He looked down, brushed at his coat. Laveau, I swear upon the Mysteries you are the hardest woman I've ever known. With every stroke and tug his appearance improved, and soon he was again the rakish King of Privateers. Widow Paris used the time to get Marie to her unsteady feet. Her experienced fingers found a bump on her daughter's head. Enough to cause temporary dizziness and vapors, Widow Paris decided, but not worry further about now.
Pardonnez-moi. Jean Laffite cleared his throat, continued in a more normal voice. "Forgive me, Mlle. Marie. Is this more to your liking?"
"Indeed. Handsome as ever, Jean." She smiled. "I am called the Widow Paris now. Sixty years have passed since last we met."
"Sixty!?" Jean turned about, head bowed. "So long. So terribly long with nothing but darkness and revenge to ponder." He spun back, his face twisted with rage. "I was betrayed! I fought and served and bled, for what?" He raised his sword and shook it at the sky. "Betrayed! My country, my city, my friends." The point came down to line up on Widow Paris. "Even you, Marie Laveau."
"I am sorry, Jean," Widow Paris said, “but I gave birth to your son to repay a debt to you, not the loa. Did you think I would let him go so easily? Non." She chuckled. "Do you think so little of me?" The sword wavered and fell to Jean's side.
"No, of course not. Not since that day on the docks of Port-au-Prince. I'm glad I saved your life, though I've wondered since if instead I saved the life of that pimp."
"Flattery. Yes, you are Jean Laffite." She rattled the charms again. "Indeed, you saved me. Then you sold me into slavery."
"An orphaned mullato girl had few options," Jean shrugged, "and Monsieur Laveau was a good man. Did he not have you baptized and recorded as his daughter born?"
"And you had expenses."
"Mon Dieu, a hard woman." The old woman and the ghost shared a smile.
Silence fell as memories rose. The counterpoint of music and revelry from outside caught Jean's attention.
"Carnival? On my birthday? That never happened while I was alive." He righted the stool and offered it to Widow Paris. "But Mardi Gras is not why you called me, Mme. Paris." Widow Paris settled Marie on the stool without answer.
"We called you about my curse, sir," came Jamie's voice from the door. She pressed the amulet to her pounding heart, but faced the ghost bravely.
"Your curse." Jean's eyes widened, bulging in an unattractive sign of anger. "Your curse?"
"Captain Jean Laffite," interrupted Widow Paris, "meet your headstrong and impulsive great-granddaughter, Jamie Larue."
Jean took a shaky step backwards, as if physically struck by the revelation. After a moment he knelt, swept off his hat and bowed his head. "Mme. Paris, I find that I must beg your wisdom on this matter. I am, if you'll forgive the pun, completely at sea."
"Easily done," she said, motioning Jamie to her. "You left me on the dock with Jaques, our baby son. That was . . ." Widow Paris searched her memory for a moment.
"April, 1817, Maman," Marie supplied, her voice weak. Jamie hugged Marie and left an arm over her aunt's shoulders to help steady her. Together the three women faced the ghost.
"Merci, Marie.” Widow Paris patted her daughter’s shoulder. “That's when you told me the loa Mademoiselle Charlotte would come. Remember?" She held his gaze until he nodded and looked down. "I could not bear that loss, Jean. I begged Damballa to protect the boy. I still remember his words: I can shield this child, he told me, but what of his children and their children? Mademoiselle Charlotte will have her way sooner or later. What would you have me do, girl?"
"I answered before thinking," Widow Paris continued after a pause. "Protect them all, I asked.
So be it, said Father Damballah. No womb from the blood of Laffite shall conceive a boy child until this matter is settled. In return, you must bring a dozen more souls to the world."
"And I can't have a son," Jamie wailed. "What man would ever marry me?"
"No sons?" Jean looked aghast at Widow Paris. "What have you done?"
"I saved my firstborn from your prideful stupidity." The mojo stick rattled like the warning of a snake.
Jean's eyes bulged fearsomely, and the dank stench of the sea bottom rose strong again. "Damn that Mademoiselle Charlotte! Blame her! When I was a boy in Haiti, she seduced me, promised me everything, tried to enslave me. I did what I had to."
"I'm sure that loa shares the blame for this stage drama, but you sold your future for greed and pride." Widow Paris watched Jean's face darken, but grimly continued. "You have none to blame but yourself, Jean Laffite. All those years, all those women, yet you remain so ignorant. Hell hath no fury as a woman scorned, and this time the scorned was a goddess."
"Scorned?” He smiled rakishly. “No other women have felt scorned at our parting. Certainly you had no such anger."
"Jean." Widow Paris' glare fairly smoldered. "You left me alone, unwed, your babe at my breast, and fated to fight a goddess to save my firstborn. I've known your plight for decades; that I was content to let you suffer should be testament to my feelings."
Widow Paris stepped closer to the still kneeling ghost. "But you, Monsieur Laffite, chose to die rather than save our son's life." She seemed to stoop just short of the rafters, her black shawl spreading as might the wings of a great raptor. "Tell me, is that the act of a gentleman, or a pirate?"
Jean trembled in rage, the sea glow pouring from his eyes and water dripping from his clothes. Their clash of wills seemed to warp the old smithy around them. Timbers creaked as light and heat was drawn from between them.
Finally Jean roared with laughter and shook his head like a beast.
"Enough of your Evil Eye. I should have kept you aboard Pride, Marie." He stood, wiping tears from his eyes. "There was never a man to match you. Well, I shall arrange to speak with Mademoiselle Charlotte and settle this."
"You are a banished spirit, Jean.” Again diminished, Widow Paris gratefully leaned on Marie. “Only the Gede would hear you and they will choose not to, thanks to Mademoiselle Charlotte."
"Indeed." He donned his hat with a flourish. "Then . . . " His voice trailed off. What had been his strong right hand was a claw of bones and dangling flesh. "This isn't good."
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