was no more than a shack, a ramshackle hut built from scraps of aluminum siding, rotting plywood, and what looked like the hood of an old pickup truck. A dingy white sheet hung loose over the doorway, an intricate vertical pattern scrawled down the center in red and black spray paint.
A mangy tabby cat lay curled by the front entrance, its gnarled stub of a tail flicking back and forth across an old straw mat. Jack took a step closer and the cat hissed, the hair on its back standing on end. Another step and the cat’s show of bravado came to an abrupt end as it darted away from the doorway and disappeared into a nearby alley.
A chill swept the air when his feet touched the mat, the sudden change in temperature sending shivers across his skin. An unseen presence, sinister and foreboding, wrapped around his body and crept into his thoughts. It urged him to flee while he still had the choice, to return to the ship before something far worse than the curse happened to him.
“No.” Not now. Not when he stood so close to freedom. Fighting against the fear, he rapped lightly on the wood beside the entrance, the material so flimsy it vibrated beneath his knuckles.
“Come in,” a woman’s voice called out from inside the shack, her accent a mixture of Creole and Spanish.
Jack pushed the sheet aside and stepped into the dimly lit room. He didn’t see much in the way of furniture, just a card table and two folding metal chairs. The table had nothing on it save for a single lit candle, a clear glass bowl filled with water, and a small cluster of dried plants. An old wooden bookcase filled the nearby corner, its shelves haphazardly packed with books, pictures, statues, and an odd assortment of unidentifiable paraphernalia. The scent of blood filled the air—fresh, if he wasn’t mistaken.
An old woman emerged from an opening at the back of the room, her ebony skin creased deeply with age. She was short but big-boned, with long dark gray hair pulled back in an intricate braid. The housedress she wore was a patchwork of colors, bringing an unexpected punch of effervescence to the otherwise dreary room.
She walked with a cane, even though she showed no trace of a limp, stopping a few feet from Jack. Her eyes narrowed as she studied him, and then widened with what appeared to be shock.
“Demon!” she hissed. Teeth bared, she took a defensive step back so the table acted as a barrier between them.
“What? No!” Jack took a step forward and she raised the cane, gripping it like a player at bat. “I’m not a goddamn demon. I’m cursed. I was hoping you could help me. You are Jolie Duquette, right?”
The old woman’s head cocked a little to the right, her amber eyes regarding him with an intensity that came close to making him squirm. With obvious distrust in her voice, she asked, “You swear not to harm me, demon?”
Jack raised his hands, palms up in a gesture of surrender. After all he’d gone through to reach this moment, he’d do everything in his power not to blow it. “I promise. And stop calling me a demon. My name is Jack. Jack Deverell. I was told you might know how to break the curse.” He crouched down far enough to reach the wallet strapped to his ankle, pulled out a hidden stash of bills. “I can pay you. I have cash.”
Jolie shook her head as she lowered the cane. “No. No curse. Demon.” She pointed to the chair on the opposite side of the table. “Sit.”
Reluctantly, he sat down, the cool metal creaking under the weight of his body. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end, his eyes scanning the room for signs of hidden danger.
“Relax,” Jolie said, still watching him with wary eyes. For some strange reason, knowing she trusted him about as much as he trusted her made him feel better about the whole situation. She took the other seat and extended her hands halfway across the table. “Give me your hands.”
He complied with her request, lightly setting his palms over
A mangy tabby cat lay curled by the front entrance, its gnarled stub of a tail flicking back and forth across an old straw mat. Jack took a step closer and the cat hissed, the hair on its back standing on end. Another step and the cat’s show of bravado came to an abrupt end as it darted away from the doorway and disappeared into a nearby alley.
A chill swept the air when his feet touched the mat, the sudden change in temperature sending shivers across his skin. An unseen presence, sinister and foreboding, wrapped around his body and crept into his thoughts. It urged him to flee while he still had the choice, to return to the ship before something far worse than the curse happened to him.
“No.” Not now. Not when he stood so close to freedom. Fighting against the fear, he rapped lightly on the wood beside the entrance, the material so flimsy it vibrated beneath his knuckles.
“Come in,” a woman’s voice called out from inside the shack, her accent a mixture of Creole and Spanish.
Jack pushed the sheet aside and stepped into the dimly lit room. He didn’t see much in the way of furniture, just a card table and two folding metal chairs. The table had nothing on it save for a single lit candle, a clear glass bowl filled with water, and a small cluster of dried plants. An old wooden bookcase filled the nearby corner, its shelves haphazardly packed with books, pictures, statues, and an odd assortment of unidentifiable paraphernalia. The scent of blood filled the air—fresh, if he wasn’t mistaken.
An old woman emerged from an opening at the back of the room, her ebony skin creased deeply with age. She was short but big-boned, with long dark gray hair pulled back in an intricate braid. The housedress she wore was a patchwork of colors, bringing an unexpected punch of effervescence to the otherwise dreary room.
She walked with a cane, even though she showed no trace of a limp, stopping a few feet from Jack. Her eyes narrowed as she studied him, and then widened with what appeared to be shock.
“Demon!” she hissed. Teeth bared, she took a defensive step back so the table acted as a barrier between them.
“What? No!” Jack took a step forward and she raised the cane, gripping it like a player at bat. “I’m not a goddamn demon. I’m cursed. I was hoping you could help me. You are Jolie Duquette, right?”
The old woman’s head cocked a little to the right, her amber eyes regarding him with an intensity that came close to making him squirm. With obvious distrust in her voice, she asked, “You swear not to harm me, demon?”
Jack raised his hands, palms up in a gesture of surrender. After all he’d gone through to reach this moment, he’d do everything in his power not to blow it. “I promise. And stop calling me a demon. My name is Jack. Jack Deverell. I was told you might know how to break the curse.” He crouched down far enough to reach the wallet strapped to his ankle, pulled out a hidden stash of bills. “I can pay you. I have cash.”
Jolie shook her head as she lowered the cane. “No. No curse. Demon.” She pointed to the chair on the opposite side of the table. “Sit.”
Reluctantly, he sat down, the cool metal creaking under the weight of his body. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end, his eyes scanning the room for signs of hidden danger.
“Relax,” Jolie said, still watching him with wary eyes. For some strange reason, knowing she trusted him about as much as he trusted her made him feel better about the whole situation. She took the other seat and extended her hands halfway across the table. “Give me your hands.”
He complied with her request, lightly setting his palms over
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