Black Dust Mambo by Adrian Phoenix Page A

poppet.”
    “Damned handbasket keeps getting bigger, Rosie,” Papa grumbled. “So where’s the Rivière girl now?”
    Rosette paused, wondering if she should tell Papa about the nomad and what she’d seen in his eyes. Wondered if she should tell Papa what she’d seen in her own eyes the night Mama had died. Wondered if Papa had stared into his own mirrored reflection and had glimpsed the darkness dwelling within his heart, the monster deforming his soul.
    “Rosette?”
    “She’s in Augustine’s custody,” Rosette replied. “But I know how to fix that and how to keep Augustine from sending out the hounds.”
    A moment of silence, then, “Keep talking, chère, ” Papa replied.

N INE
T RAPPED M AGIC
    Perched on the edge of a high-backed, sigil-carved chair, Kallie recounted her discovery of Gage’s body and the events that had followed in a low, calm voice as she watched Basil Augustine place the soggy, sulfur-reeking towel on a polished oak examination table.
    Hand-carved sigils, ancient and powerful, swirled around the table’s rim. She suspected that the sigils acted like an electric fence, trapping all magicked items placed upon its surface until they were either removed by authorized individuals or their magic was dispelled.
    Augustine spread the towel open, revealing the disemboweled poppet.
    “And then you walked into the room,” she finished. “Yes. A good thing, too. Otherwise Mrs. Conti would’ve called the police.”
    Kallie sighed. “Yeah.”
    Augustine reached inside his suit jacket and pulled out a handkerchief-wrapped object. He unrolled the plain white cloth, revealing a slender steel pick that he used to poke at the poppet’s guts—sticks, torn cloth, red yarn, and a foul little knot composed mainly of what looked like Spanish moss, the other ingredients too wet to differentiate—except for that goddamned strip of paper.
    “Squeamish much?” Kallie asked, unable to keep the amusement out of her voice. She’d bet anything that the Brit carried the pick for the express purpose of poking at things he deemed icky.
    “Cautious when it comes to things of a dubious nature, Ms. Rivière.” Augustine’s gaze flicked across the smeared ink letters on the strip of paper. “Who is Gabrielle LaRue?”
    “My aunt. The woman who raised me and my cousin.”
    Augustine glanced at Kallie. “Ah. So your aunt is also a hoodoo. I imagine she taught you.”
    “Conjuring runs in the family,” Kallie said. Then, thinking of her cousin, Jackson, she added, “For the most part.”
    “You mentioned that Mr. Brûler was a family friend,” Augustine said, flipping the towel back over the disassembled doll. The bitter smell of wormwood twisted into the air. “Why would your aunt want him dead?”
    “She doesn’t. She thinks the world of Dallas.” Kallie bit back the words “ but dozens of cuckolded men do not share those sentiments.” “She taught him everything she knows about conjure.” Kallie shook her head. “She’s being set up.”
    “Like you? Does being falsely accused of crimes run in the family also?”
    Kallie stared at the Brit, her gaze icing over. “Y’know, you’re an asshole, and I wish I’d broken your goddamned jaw. Next time I will. Then I won’t hafta listen to your bullshit.”
    Augustine touched his bruised jaw, and a rueful smile played across his lips. “I have no intention of giving you another opportunity to catch me off guard, Ms. Rivière. I’ve learned my lesson.”
    “Doesn’t much sound like it,” Kallie muttered.
    Augustine slid the pick, sheathed in its handkerchief once more, back into his pocket. He strolled around the table, grabbed the only sigil-free chair in the room, and placed it in front of Kallie’s. He sat down. “So tell me why you don’t think your aunt is responsible for that doll or for the attempt on Mr. Brûler’s life.”
    Kallie regarded the Brit for a moment, taking his measure. His gaze was level, open, his expression