Orfeo by M. J. Lawless Page A

of the city he couldn’t believe that it meant more than her love, her desire, for him.
    No, that was not it. It demeaned him to even consider such a thing. He knew precisely why she couldn’t leave the city. He understood enough of Earl’s reputation to realize that the king of the New Orleans underworld had no intention of letting her go. He would follow them to the literal ends of the earth and they would never be safe. For Ardyce, this was enough to banish her lover even though it would break her heart. She wanted to save him, but Orfeo felt a chill rise in waves across his naked skin as he thought what Earl and his loa would do to her. For such a betrayal, Earl would surely kill her as well.
    With a sigh, he stood and crossed to the alcove, staring at the photograph of his mother as he placed the other charm around his neck. This was the most precious thing he owned along with the old photograph, for she had made the amulets for him when he was a child, praying to Bondye to keep him from harm. He held the trinket in his hand, his fingers rubbing along the stones and bones and iron nails, feeling the rough and the smooth. Such things had failed to bring him peace, but perhaps it would offer her a little protection.
    Letting it fall back against his chest, he took in a deep breath. The air was stifling in here: though the night outside would be growing cooler it was far too humid in the room and he crossed to the window.
    With a frown he looked out as he opened it, seeing a group of figures struggling in the street below. The lights of a car shot out, half-illuminating the people and he could hear voices raised. One of the figures was being carried toward the car and, with a shock, Orfeo realized that it was Ardyce.
    As the door closed on her and one, then two of the others clambered in, he bellowed out, a cry of hate and rage. The figure in a hat looked up at the window and the fire in his body turned to ice as he saw Papa stare at him with a smile. As his companion pushed Baptiste to the floor, the vile man raised a hand to his hat in an ironic salute and quickly turned back to the car.
    Immediately, Orfeo leaped across the bed and ran to the door, yanking it open and running, half jumping down the stairs. He took the final flight in a reckless career, crashing into the young woman, a prostitute who lived in the building and who would sometimes listen to him sing. Without a pause he flung himself at the door that led to the street and ran outside.
    Halting at last on the sidewalk, disoriented for a second, he saw the headlights of the car as it reversed at speed toward the main road. Then, with a screech, it spun around and sped away.
    He was already running toward it, his heart beating as he pounded the road in his bare feet, his skin hot despite the cold air flowing around his naked torso. When he turned the corner, all he could see were the rear lights of the car—red, malevolent eyes—shooting away from him. With a cry of despair he sank to his knees, feeling the hard and relentless surface against his bones.
    “They’ve taken her.” As Orfeo looked up, at first he couldn’t see anything, his eyes blinded by the tears that streamed down his face. “They must have followed us. I’m sorry.”
    Orfeo’s vision cleared and he saw Baptiste, looking sallow and unhealthy in the street lights that illuminated this part of the slums. The man’s clothes were dirty from where he had been pushed to the ground, and he looked even older now, his eyes sunken with fear.
    “Where!” Orfeo demanded. “Where have they taken her?”
    “There’s nothing you can do now, son,” Baptiste told him gently. “Earl always wanted her. He’d never let her go. You pushed him too far.” He reached down to touch the young man, but Orfeo batted away his hand angrily.
    Standing slowly, he turned to face Baptiste. His face was like stone, or hard iron, the shadows falling across his brow as he dipped his head to look at the older