Chapter 49
Chapter forty-nine
Delilah
“Don’t look at me,” Mex snapped, her hands in the air like she wanted no part in what we were doing. “Your man over there is the one with the grand plans.”
“You will do whatever you normally did to locate a soul in the Pit and converse with it,” Archer said condescendingly. “Only this time, you need to be touching Delilah when you do it.”
“Touching her? That’s all? What is she, some kind of wi-fi booster?”
Vine snorted, the sound ending in a choked cough when Corson elbowed him in the gut. Above us, Mal snapped his beak from where he was perched on the head of a carved gargoyle, his talons digging into the creature’s eyes, and I gave him a smile.
“More like a conduit,” Archer added, scowling at Vine. “It’s only a theory, but one I believe will work.”
Mex considered, pursing her lips in that way she did, before finally shrugging.
“Alright. It’s your quest. What the fuck do I care if it doesn’t work?
” Her words sounded dismissive, but she was looking at me with eager eyes.
I could imagine she had been missing having access to her ability; the idea that touching me could bring it back to her, even temporarily, must have been enticing.
Moving toward Baptiste’s coffin, Mex hefted the glass lid, the heavy piece coming off the top easily with her supernatural strength. Setting it aside, she stood over the coffin, staring down at the dead man inside with something like derision in her expression before she looked at me.
“I usually have to search for a few minutes before I’m able to locate the soul I’m looking for. It may take longer, seeing as how I haven’t been down there in a while.”
Reaching out, she laid one hand in the center of Baptiste’s chest, and I cringed as a puff of dust swirled into the air when her fingers disturbed the fabric of his ancient suit. Not taking her gaze off the corpse, she held her other hand out to me and let out a slow exhale.
Mex was eerily still, not even appearing to breathe, as she tilted her head back, her fingers still hanging in the air before me, but I hesitated.
The last time I did this, I ended up accidentally transporting Archer and myself to the Void. What would happen if I did that again? How would I get back without him to guide me?
“Delilah,” Archer soothed, feeling my anxiety through the bond and sending me reassurance from his side. “Breathe.”
Blowing out a breath, following his firm but gentle instructions as I squared my shoulders and raised my own hand, resting it against Mex’s upturned palm.
The second our hands touched she let out a scream so violent, I thought she might have been injured. Terrified I’d hurt her, I yanked my hand back, scrambling away, but she spun on me, snatching my hand back and grasping it in her own so tightly my fingers ached.
But I didn’t say a word.
Archer tensed, his body poised to move if there was even a hint of danger to me, and just knowing he was there eased some of my own tension.
“How?” Mex asked, staring at our joined hands before looking at me with unshed tears in her eyes. “How is this possible?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted, shaking my head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know how I’m doing it.”
“Fuck,” she breathed, the dark irises of her eyes turning a cloudy gray color as her magic took over. I could feel the weight of her power, sitting heavy on my chest as she smiled wide, her expression joyous. “It feels so fucking good to be home.”
Fingers shaking, Mex replaced her palm back on Baptiste’s corpse, sending up yet another cloud of dust and other suspicious particles, which I did my best not to inhale.
Gritting her teeth, Mex slowly unveiled her magic, the power of it feeling like lightning in my veins.
I stared at her, the tendons in her neck standing out with the strain she was under, her dark eyes now milky and darting from side to side, as though she was looking around, seeing things that we couldn’t see.
Realizing that she actually was seeing what I couldn’t sent a chill down my spine.
Above me, Mal cawed softly, his wings flapping in agitation.
Pandora, too, was restless, shifting and clamoring about in her pouch, and I wished I could let her out, but there was no way I could break the connection with Mex, so she’d just have to be patient.
Finally, after what felt like ages, Mex smiled, her grin looking absolutely diabolical as she dropped her gaze to the corpse before us, her hand curling into a fist in his ragged suit.
“Welcome back, Jean-Francois. It’s been a long time.”
As I stared, the corpse stirred, the head slowly rolling toward Mex, the sound of long unused tendons creaking in the quiet of the tomb.
“Murmur,” the corpse hissed, the word slow as the leathery skin of his face stretched and strained with the movement.
It was strange; the voice came from the corpse, but logically I knew there was no air in his lungs, no vocal chords remaining in that whithered neck.
When the mouth opened, the mandible dropping down like a broken puppet, the tongue appeared, black and useless as a rotted potato, and I fought back a gag.
There was no way that the dessicated body before me should have been able to speak, not in the condition it was currently in.
And yet, as the lower jaw continued to bounce up and down, the cheek tissues squeaking like a rusty screen door, the voice continued to pour out, as if Sweet Baptiste was hale and whole before me.
“Where am I? How did I get here?” His words were rushed, the accent so thick I could barely understand what he was saying.
“You’re here because I have need of you,” Mex answered, her foggy gaze staring into the empty eye sockets of the corpse threateningly. If he’d still had any eyebrows, they would have risen in shock. “When I’m finished with you, I’ll be putting you right back.”
“No!” he begged, letting out a string of curses in rapid-fire French. “S'il vous pla?t! Je ne peux pas revenir en arrière!”
“Oh, you’ll go back, alright,” Archer chimed in, coming to stand on my other side, close, but not touching me. “And if you answer our questions, I just might put in a good word for you.”
“Oui! Of course,” he assured Archer, his head bobbing precariously on his skinny neck. “Anything.”
“Years ago, you were given an object by a priest,” Archer stated, getting right to the point. “I want to know where it is.”
“I don’t know what—” Baptiste began, but his words were cut off when Mex growled, her fist pressing down on his chest so hard, one of his ribs snapped, the sound making me grimace.
“Alright!” he panted, though how he managed that without functioning lungs, I wasn’t sure.
“I may have some recollection, but I’m unable to be sure at this time.
Perhaps if you offered me something to refresh my memory, I could better assist you. ”
“I’m offering to return you to the fourth circle of hell where I found your sorry soul,” Mex snarled, her teeth elongating into fangs as her own demon form rose up.
“I’m offering you the rest of your worthless eternity spent pushing boulders as penance for your unchecked greed.
And you should be grateful.” She leaned close, the tip of her nose nearly brushing Baptiste’s.
“Because I could send you deeper. Down to the seventh circle, perhaps? Condemned to a desert of blazing sand, tortured by a constant rain of fire?” She looked around the crypt, her lip curled in disgust. “Fuck knows this monstrosity of a mausoleum is a sin against art.”
Baptiste shuddered, his whole body rattling as his bones clanked together.
As her anger rose, I could feel more of Mex’s power pouring through me, and sweat began to bead on my forehead with the strain.
“Or maybe your sins have earned you a place in the eighth circle, fighting for scraps in a river of shit?”
“Non!” he wailed, his fear causing his disembodied voice to rise an octave.
“Then tell us what we want to know and I’ll throw you back like an underweight trout.”
“It was a diamond,” he admitted, his teeth chattering together as he shook with fear.
“He gave it to me personally. A gorgeous black diamond the likes of which I had never seen. The priest, he said he needed to hide it. That it was of vital importance, but no one would come looking. He said it would be mine until he needed it again. But then, he never came. So I figured it was mine in truth.” He sounded petulant, like a toddler, and my nose wrinkled.
“So where is it?” Archer snapped, his impatience bleeding through the bond. “Where did you leave it, you bastard?”
“It was so beautiful. Truly magnifique. I knew that a jewel that rare deserved to be seen, and that it should only be worn by a woman to whom it could compare.” He sighed, his bony shoulders sagging in defeat.
“So I gave it to such a woman, one whose beauty could be seen from afar, and who was as precious as the black diamond she now wears around her neck.”
Turning, I glanced again at the corpse of his wife, the lovely lady in the pretty dress, and I imagined that in life, she had been a rare beauty indeed.
“But she’s not wearing a necklace,” I said, confused.
“No,” Mex answered, thoughtful. “Because Sweet Baptiste, the great Sugar Baron of New Orleans, is an especially heinous bastard, isn’t he?
A man condemned to Hell for his greed wouldn’t give a prize like that to his little wife, would he?
The woman he was sworn to before the church and the law?
Of course not.” Shaking her head, Mex squeezed my hand, her rage palpable.
“Forsaking all others, my ass. Tell her what you did with the diamond, you fucking pig. Tell her exactly what kind of man you were in life.”
The corpse of Jean-Francois Baptiste turned to me, his hollow eyes seeming to carry an air of dismay, and I marveled at how the dead face could hold such a sorrowful expression.
“I—I had a lover,” he practically sobbed, dipping his chin. “I gave the diamond to my lover, my beautiful mistress. The woman whose beauty stirred my soul and kept me up at night. I needed to give her a reason to be true. So that she wouldn’t entertain another in my absence.”
“Dude,” Vine hissed. “Bad form. Don’t you know how vows work? You break ’em, you gotta pay the price.”
“The irony is pretty delicious,” Corson put in angrily, his deep voice rumbling through the tomb. “Bribing your mistress to stay loyal while you were the one stepping out on your wife.”
In response, Baptiste gave a mournful whimper, his chest deflating as though he had exhaled in defeat.
“Oh, you sorry piece of shit,” Mex said, shaking her head. “Greed. Lust. Envy. How many sins are you guilty of, Sweet Baptiste? How much deeper do I get to send you?”
“Je suis désolé,” was all he could bring himself to say.
“Fuck,” Archer sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Let’s get this shit over with.” Leaning down over the coffin, Archer snapped his fingers until Baptiste looked his direction. “Who was the woman and where can we find her?”
No answer, just more pitiful French whimpering, and I wondered how a little man like him had managed to capture the attention of not one but two beautiful women.
“Answer him!” Mex snapped, and Baptiste sniveled, his chin wobbling before he replied.
“My love. My precious love. Her name,” he paused for effect, and I wondered if all colonial-era men were so melodramatic. “Her name was Genevieve Dubois.”
“Oh, you stupid son of a bitch,” Mex said, shaking her head and laughing manically. “You unbelievably stupid—what the fuck were you thinking?”
“Her beauty, it could shame the sunrise. Her lips were ripe as cherries. Her skin as soft as—”
“Yeah, alright,” Mex said, shaking her fist in the suit jacket again before she abruptly let go, breaking our connection and leaving me gasping. “That’s enough of that bullshit.”
“What did you do?” Archer asked, incensed, as his arms came around me from behind, holding me upright when the loss of Mex’s magic would have left me crumpling to the ground.
If I had thought I was tired after the consecration ritual, it was nothing compared to the bone-deep exhaustion that swept over me now. “I wasn’t done questioning him.”
“Believe me, you were done.” Mex stepped away from the coffin, dusting her hands off like she’d touched something undesirable.
“That sad sack of shit was about to write an epic poem to his mistress, so I sent him back. Let him write it in the ninth circle, with his face in a lake of ice.” Turning to look at Archer, her eyes back to their usual deep brown, Mex added, “He gave us a name, and that was all we needed anyway.”
“You know her? Genevieve Dubois?”
“Yeah. I know her, alright.”
“So she’s alive?” I asked, wondering how that was possible.
“In a manner of speaking.” Looking around, Mex took in the tomb, once again sneering at its opulence, before she shook her head and crossed her arms. “Genevieve Dubois is the Vampire Queen of New Orleans.”