On Midnight Wings

“You ain’t going nowhere, you.” The figure’s voice sounded utterly human, dancing with Cajun rhythm. Waist-length dreads of gleaming and twisted bundles of wire undulated in the air, electric snakes curling around a neon Medusa.

Mauvais sucked in a shocked breath. The hoodoo conjurer had been right, after all.

You got an angry loa on dis here boat . . .

And exactly how does one placate an angry loa? Mauvais wondered, mouth dry. Had it been sent, a nasty trick set into motion by a rival or enemy? Or had it chosen him because of something he’d inadvertently done—or not done?

Mauvais lifted his hands slowly, palms out. Took one prudent step back. “If I have offended you, it was unintentional, and I apologize. What would you have me do to free myself and my boat?”

The figure stared at Mauvais with eyes like endless black ice. “I want you to burn like she did, motherfucker. She screamed in agony until the flames she breathed in burned away her larynx and ashed her lungs. My sister, my mère de sang, my Simone.”

Mauvais froze, remembering words Silver had spat at him in the Quarter not even an hour ago: Simone. Her name was Simone, you jackass. She died because of you.

Not a curse, no. Revenge.

Mauvais caught a blur of flickering blue-edged movement, then felt something shatter against him. He smelled kerosene—and much worse. Flames swept over him eagerly, devouring his clothing, the flesh beneath. The stench of burning hair filled his nostrils.

“Burn, you motherfucking fi’ de garce.”

A high-pitched wailing pierced the night, a siren of agony vibrating from his own throat. Choking on the acrid reek of his own roasting flesh, Mauvais raced, flailing, across the deck to the railing and hurtled overboard

He plummeted, blazing, an April bonfire, into the cold, night-black waters of the Mississippi.

36 A MOTHER’S GRIEF GEHENNA

A MOIST, BRINE-SCENTED WIND whipped through Lucien’s hair, pushed at his folded wings. He studied the night-darkened sea crashing around the weathered rocks far below, ghostly spume spraying into the air. Beneath his feet, he felt the booming vibration as the sea crashed into a cave hollowed below into the cliff face.

“How much longer?” he asked.

“He’ll be here soon,” Hekate’s soft voice answered from beside him.

Lucien said nothing, a muscle ticking in his jaw. Leave it to the Morningstar to take his own sweet time even while the trumpets blew and the stars fell from the skies.

Enough time had already been wasted presenting himself to Gabriel and assuring the royal pretender that everything was fine with Dante, that his visit to Gehenna had been prompted merely by a desire to see, once more, a certain silver-haired enchantress.

But engrossed in directing the cleaning of the creawdwr’s receiving chamber, a room unused since Yahweh’s death more than two thousand years, Gabriel had barely paid any attention to Lucien’s presence, let alone the reason for his visit.

Finally waving Lucien away like an annoying summer fly, Gabriel had said only, “Why should I care? She’s no longer my hostage. She may do as she pleases. And if that includes becoming entangled with her mother’s former lover, the murderer of our previous creawdwr, then so be it. I have better things to worry about.”

Hekate’s silver bell of a voice pulled Lucien away from his thoughts. He looked at her, certain she’d asked him a question, one he hadn’t heard. Pale moonlight rippled along her looped and coiled—and now salt-spray-beaded—tresses. Night hollowed her cheeks, pooled deep in her hyacinth eyes. Drew him in.

“Forgive me,” he murmured. “I’m afraid I didn’t—”

Hekate shook her head. “Nothing to forgive. I know you have a lot on your mind—including whether you can trust my father to do the right thing.”

“There is that. But I believe he will. It’s in his own best interests.”

“For now.”

“What did you ask me while I was woolgathering?”

Hekate hesitated, then turned her gaze to the restless sea. “If you knew why Dante refused to restore my mother. She was helping you, after all. Trying to protect him from the others. It makes no sense.”

Lucien shook his head regretfully. “I don’t know the answer to that. I haven’t had time or opportunity to discuss the matter with Dante. But I will, I promise, once he’s home and safe.”

“Thank you.” Hekate flashed Lucien a quick, grateful smile before giving her attention back to the sea. “So restless,” she murmured. “When I was a child, my mother told me that Yahweh’s mother, Leviathan, lived in the ocean and that when it stormed and the sea was wild and restless, it was just Leviathan grieving her only child.”

Leviathan. A chill touched the base of Lucien’s spine. “Do you still believe that?”

“When I was young, yes. But now, of course not. For the longest time though, storms like this made me think of death and loss and a mother’s tears.”