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“A’wakayka,” Henri said. Alma nodding, murmuring,
"S’gili. We know. We seen you come busting in last night and trying to
nail the judge.” Taking away the beef, she came back with a hot loaf of French
bread and a pound of creamy butter. Henri broke the bread and shoved half of a
steaming loaf at Carl.
“Peace to your House,” Carl said. He stilled, looking
around the room.
“And also to the House of your Mother, son,” Alma said,
her face serene. “God is coming. The Sun Wolf-priest of all the Heavens is
coming to make war on men like these we serve.”
One long, elegant hand edged up to her throat and Carl saw a
collar.
Alma shrugged and smiled. “When Benny comes to life in the
real world, the spirit world, he’ll begin the war here.”
Carl looked away.
“Lady, I heard it all before. The Black Clouds prophesy.
Benny is the guardian of the key.”
Smiling and sunny, Alma sang a note. “Yes, praise the Lord.
The Great Invasion. The invasion that will make the Spaniards and English look
like nothing. The native peoples will be the winners, though. The ones that live
in the old ways, in Creator’s purity. Blues and ‘breeds like my old man and
me, we rise up and slaughter the evil ones. The Cleansing, sugar.”
And the dead will rise to be judged and cast into Hell for
all eternity. Trying to control the shudders racing thought his body, Carl
clenched his fists. When he killed Benny, that would kill a lot of people’s
hope for a future. But he didn’t have to. The demon wasn’t in complete
control.
Black fire raced through veins and nerves. Carl threw himself
away from the table shrieking and in agony.
Alma raced to him only to be jerked to a halt by Henri.
“Go, woman,” Henri said, shoving her at the kitchen door.
“Lock you’self in the cooler, and pray to the Sacred Mother.”
Each strand accompanied by its individual drop of blood, a
fine coat of hair was growing over the twisting, sweating body. Alma raised
trembling hands at her husband.
“Baby, don’t stay. He’s beyond your help.”
Henri scowled, and she fled.
The door slapped shut behind her. Before squatting near the
now growling Carl, Henri pulled a hollowed bone of a chicken leg from his
pocket.
“A’wakayka,” he said, scowling. "A damned
werewolf. Carl, didn’t I always say you was a dog at heart?”
The shon:gili
snarled. In it, the demon said, “Redbone jiggaboo.”
Chortling, Henri nodded. “Best of the best, but you got
left with all the rest. My gran’pa, they weren’t no fools. They married
Choctaw women. And one o’ my gramma, she was a power woman. Back ‘round
1961, she used one o’ yours to kill off some Party boys what liked to hang
black men and redskins, too. You know the place. The Nanawaya River rez, in
Alabama.” He opened his hand to show the bone.
The shon:gili’s
eyes widened.
“Yeah,” Henri said. “You know. Gramma, she prayed the
Holy Spirit into this here piece o’ bone. All I got to do is shoot Creator
into you, and you'll be trapped forever. When the body die, you get thrown into
the black pit, the thirteenth level of Hell. Ain’t no escape from there, I’m
told.” Henri’s teeth bared, and his grin became almost maniacal. “Gramma,
she said there’s things down there that terrify even the devil his-self. What
think you, they do to a wimpy mongrel o’ the likes of you?”
Rising, Henri stared down at the cowering demoniac.
“You do what you have to, and so will I. We all part of the
great mystery. You do your evil, and my Creator, She uses it for good. Do your
worse, doggy. You still gonna lose.”
“Screw you,” it said in Carl’s voice. “Jig.”
Eyes twinkling with mirth, Henri put the bone to his mouth
and urine pooled under the hindquarters of the shon:gili.
“Hm, man, but it temps me.”
The door from the foyer slapped open. Tommy stood in the
doorway. He stalked in, the dark robes of his priestly office slapping at his
legs. Seeing the remains of Carl’s feast, he grabbed a bottle of beer and
swallowed it fast, then a second.
“Where’s Harrison?”
“Lord, boss." A vacant smile on his face, Henri
shrugged. “Was playing with himself last I seen. Having him a real fun time
o’ it, too.”
Grabbing a chair, Tommy dropped into it.
“Get me something to eat.”
The bone slid back in Henri’s pocket. He stared at the bent
head and scarred, pale hands of the priest.
“You don’t know?” Henri asked, a frown of wonder
narrowing his eyes.
Tommy glanced up. Within the dark recesses of the hood, his
eyes seethed a bright red.
“Know what,
slave?”
A smile ticked at the corners of Henri’s mouth. He let the
bone drop into his pocket.
“Oh, nothing, sir. What would you like?”
“Meat.”
With the badly chewed corpse of the woman on his
mind, Henri nodded. He sauntered away through the doors to the kitchen.
©2004 StoriesByEmail.com
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