HUNTERS

HUNTERS

Chapter 1

Louisiana, Bayou Mauvais

January 12, 2012

In the dense fog, hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, drops of cold sweat trickling down her ribs, Verity drove slowly, not sure which side of the narrow road she was on, and how close to the deep ditch on her right, and on her left, Lost Creek eight feet below with the dangerously undercut bank.

On the passenger seat, a text appeared on her cellphone. She read the words, but it took a few moments to comprehend:. “Plans changed. Med School. Academy. Can’t risk. Too dangerous. Come home. Sorry. Charles & Gerard.”

Shocked, distracted and staring at the screen, Verity felt the left front tire jerk and sink over the edge. “Merde alors!” Turning hard right, she veered back into the middle of the road and braked;  slammed her fists once on the steering wheel and then, with no choice, kept driving until she found the abandoned shack, parked and sat, hands on her knees, staring into the swirling fog brushing the SUV’s windows as if seeking an opening.

A year ago, after Jolie had moved into the cult’s compound, her family disowned her. The Lafitte and Regauds dismissed her as rebellious. A lost cause. In the neighborhood, the Old People called her débauché. Démente. Friends called her crazy, and moved on. Verity, Charles and Gerard had not. Jolie was her best friend. Gerard Bechet’s little sister and Charles Regaud’s girlfriend. If there was a way to help her, they’d find it.

Two days ago, for the first time in over a year, Jolie had called her, whispering, “Verity, help me. We’re going to Mexico. Last meeting the 12th. At night. Perdue Levee Road. Belle Abri”—the phone had gone dead.

Charles had just been accepted to the Culinary Arts Academy in Lucerne, Switzerland. Gerard, to med school at Duke University. Their parent’s would pay their expenses, like her family would support her through college and, hopefully graduate school. But if the families found out they were helping Jolie…

They’d save her. It was worth the risk.

Based on everything they knew about the cult—including its Enforcers who, according to rumor, enjoyed using their hickory wood clubs—they’d worked out a fast plan using maps, calculating distance,  driving time and factoring in the conflicting schedules and obligations for three families. After a short intense argument, they’d agreed that Charles could raid his family’s gun cabinet for two tasers and his grandfather, Judge (xxxxx)  antique snub-nosed .38. They’d also agreed that because of family schedules, Verity would take her own car, while Gerard and Charles traveled together, a plan that tonight had worked in their favor. By texting her from a safe distance they’d avoided a face-to-face fight.

She could still text—no, call them. Curse. Accuse. Shame them for choosing ambition, money and security over Jolie—

Why? It was too late, and time was short.

She inhaled, held her breath, exhaled slowly and unclenched her fists.

Without Gerard and Charles, trying to rescue Jolie was felony reckless. Of course she could still leave. The cult would never know she’d been here. But if something terrible happened to Jolie—maybe worse, if no one ever knew what happened to her at all—she’d be tormented for the rest of her life, wondering what if…

God, she thought, Papa Legba, just get us through this.

She got out of her car, hesitated, then shut the door. The ‘bang’ wasn’t as loud as she’d feared. No worse than a small cannon cracker at Mardi Gras, and she hoped that any stray cult members, gator poachers or wandering rougarou would assume it came from a hunting rifle or backfiring outboard motor.

She left the shack and followed the levee road. It wasn’t just the chill air that made her turn up the collar of her old peacoat, and pull her knit watch cap farther down around her ears. Mixed with the smells of standing water, damp earth and decayed leafy compost, there was a taint of woodsmoke from the cult’s ceremony, beyond the woods on the open high ground near Bayou Mauvais and the ruins of Belle Abri mansion.

The perfect place, she thought nervously, for corruption, depravity and the ravaging of lost souls.

In 1837, the rapacious nouveau riche Sauviac family, lately arrived from Jamaica, established Belle Abri plantation and built its Greek Revival mansion. Respectable people did not visit, as the Sauviacs themselves were not “received.” Their refined cruelty and unnatural good fortune—their enemies tended to die in grisly and mysterious ways—and stories passed by slaves to the outside world, fueled rumors of black magic and demon-worship.

In 1866, Édouard Sauviac, youngest son of Belle Abri’s owner, kidnapped Julie Beauchene the day before her marriage to Valcour Gallatin. The outraged families, joined by other plantation owners, farmers and ex-soldiers, raided Belle Abri, rescued Julie and burned the mansion, slaughtering every Sauviac they could catch. Survivors found refuge in New Orleans.

The mansion was rumored to be haunted, and Verity couldn’t shake the feeling that even from this distance, evil gibbering duppy ghosts might come writhing out of the ruins and snatch her.

In the fog, intent on finding the path that led from the road through the woods to the high ground, she didn’t see the parked grey cargo van until she bumped into it. Frightened, she backed up. No voices, no sound. One of the back doors wasn’t completely closed. She opened it a few inches and glanced inside. Empty. Both sides had padded bench seats. On the floor, bench cushions. The only windows were in front. The interior had a weird stink of body odor and burnt orange peels.

Alert for sounds from people she couldn’t see, she continued walking. Muted colors, bulky shapes with no hard edges and occasional rents in the fog revealed two more vans, a dozen cars and three double-cab pick-up trucks with camper shells. She made quick calculations. With just bench seats and floor cushions, each van could pack in up to twenty passengers. The cars, five or six; the pick-ups, maybe a dozen. Up ahead, there were probably more she couldn’t see. There could be over 200 people here.

What was she walking into?

A few yards ahead, laughing and swearing, three people holding flashlights thrashed through the underbrush onto the road. They wore white arm bands and carried gnarled wood clubs. Enforcers.

Sprinting into the woods, she tripped over a log hidden in the weeds and scraped her left ankle; recovered, then froze at the faint sound of slithering.

On a woven lanyard around her neck, she wore an extra car key, a small Swiss Army knife and a penlight. She took off the lanyard, gripped the penlight, hesitated, and listened. Judging from the voices, the Enforcers were still on the road, but moving away. If she used the light for just a few seconds, there was minimal risk they’d see it.

Sweeping the narrow beam from side-to-side, she discovered there were no paths.

She put the lanyard back, picked up a long stick and walked slowly, putting one foot down, waiting, moving again, sometimes shuffling, testing the sodden earth, prodding weeds, briar patches, clumps of saplings and trailing vines, trying to give snakes a chance to retreat, fearing every shadow and twisted stick might come alive and strike.

An owl hooted, rose from a tree limb and glided away. She realized it was the first wildlife she’d seen or heard since she’d left her car. Frogs and nightbirds were silent. Rabbits did not break cover. There were no shining eyes from possums. Not even manic chittering from raccoons. It wasn’t natural. Something was wrong, and it wasn’t just the cult.

At a stretch of Lost Creek about eight feet wide, the woods ended. She crossed a slipperydouble-plank bridge, then scrambled up the bank onto the high ground. Judging from the number of cars, there was probably a large crowd. But in darkness where fog mixed with smoke from small campfires limited visibility to a few yards, the crowd and the high ground did not exist. Around the fires, there were just phantoms in makeshift rather shabby “Elf Land” costumes. Jolie was probably wearing one, which meant even close up, she’d look different and easy to miss. Oh, bon sang! She could have already passed Jolie without recognizing her. The last of Verity’s optimism burned away into frustration; the realization of how alone she was and the first gut-twist of real fear.

The campfires ended about fifty feet from the mansion’s front steps. Even the Enforcers kept their distance. Most of the second floor walls were gone, the remnants supported by twelve pillars. The first floor was a charred shell, but mostly intact. On the right side near the back, a shifting red glow illuminated trees and dense brush along Bayou Mauvais.

Originally protected by natural high ground and man-made levees, the mansion and the bayou had been a half-mile apart. Since the end of the Civil War, battered by hurricanes, floods and neglect, the levees had eroded away. All the old slave cabins and out-buildings were half-submerged. A few more hurricane seasons, and the mansion itself would be flooded.

Stronger than fear, insatiable curiosity pulled Verity into the deep shadows along a path until she came to a large hole broken through the first-floor wall. About fifteen feet away, crouched behind a pile of rotted timbers and charred bricks, she stared into a room where two men stood around a small scrap wood fire on the open floor. She recognized them: Paul LaBasse and his first cousin, Damien Durel, jaded feral trust-fund Aristos.

Paul and Damien looked so much alike—6’ tall, thin but muscular with handsome, intriguingly sharp faces and blond shoulder-length hair--many people assumed they were twins. Tonight, unlike the cult’s devotees, they wore street clothes: jeans, pullover sweaters and heavy hip-length coats. From their scowls, folded arms, the way they scuffed their boots on the floor and ignored each other, she assumed they’d been arguing.

In grade school, Damien had been the neighborhood bully. Verity had been eleven years old on the rainy Halloween night when he’d ambushed her outside a school party and chased her down an alley into a cemetery. The only witnesses were ghosts. Dressed like a medieval pilgrim, Verity had been carrying her grandfather’s oak walking stick. In darkness, where the animal is older than the human, Verity had turned on Damien.

Afterwards, he kept his distance. In the past seven years, their mutual hatred had grown cold, deep and silent. Verity had no longer feared him--until now.

She remembered that Paul and Damien had Sauviac grandmothers. Damien’s family still owned Belle Abri; over 1,000 acres on both sides of Perdue Levee road. On private property, Damien, Paul, and the cult could do what they wanted without being bothered by locals or the law. Like the faint stench of decay from an old grave, rumors of black magic still tainted both families. Maybe their presence here, and their connection to the cult, had a chilling kind of logic.

Through a doorless opening in the back wall, another man entered. Older, perhaps in his early thirties, he wore jeans, a black turtleneck sweater and grey parka. Verity didn’t recognize him, but he looked so much like Paul and Damien, he must be related. His thick auburn hair was long on top, short at the sides. Upper cheekbone to chin, the left side of his face was marred by a jagged red scar at least a quarter-inch wide.

Paul said angrily, “It was just supposed to be the vans.Who told the rest—“

Scarface said calmly, with an edge of contempt. “All that bullshit about being ‘chosen’ and you thought they’d keep quiet? Did any of your mother’s children live?”

Fist up, Paul lunged at Scarface.

Damien got between them. “Enough! Blame us. Me and Paul. It’s done. Can’t change it.”

Paul stepped back.

Scarface said, “So they told everyone else. They’re all here. It’s time, anyway. It’s gone on long enough. We’ve got enough guys to keep control. After that—”

In the bayou, something large splashed. An animal screeched once. The men looked toward the bayou. Verity ducked.

Scarface grimaced. “God, I hate those things. But they’re useful. They’ll do the job.”

Verity raised her head just high enough to see over the pile.

Paul looked horrified. “Not…all of them?

“Witnesses.” said Damien.

Paul persisted, “But the cars—“

Scarface cut him off. “Could be days, weeks before somebody finds them. By then we’re gone. No evidence. Any kids get away, who’ll believe them? They’ve never seen me and they don’t know your real names.” He smiled. “Must belong to some kind of cult.”

“The Enforcers—“

“Pralines,” said Damien. “Lagniappes.” He jerked his chin toward the bayou. “For them.”

“I didn’t sign up for this,” said Paul, defiant but obviously terrified.

Damien asked, “So you came to Jesus? You want out? Fine.”

Behind them, another man entered.

Verity knew him. Eddie Lawler, ex-high school uber-thug with the face and body of a blond angel, and the soul of a water moccasin.

Lawler and Scarface glanced at each other. Lawler left the room, then returned holding a leather pouch about eight inches long with a spout on one end.

Damien and Scarface tackled Paul, forcing him face down on the floor. He struggled, trying to yell. Damien pressed his hand over Paul’s mouth. Scarface pinned his arms. Together, they rolled Paul onto his side and twisted his head back. Lawler stuck the spout into Paul’s mouth, forcing him to drink. Paul spit out what looked to Verity like dark orange water. Lawler slapped him hard and replaced the spout, keeping it there long enough for Paul to swallow visibly three times, then removed it. Damien and Scarface released him and stood. Paul twitched, thrashed and lay still, gasping. Lawler pulled him upright. Paul smiled, frowned, smiled again convulsively, raised one arm, and let it fall. Lawler pushed him out of the room.

Verity fled, slipped on the mud and slid down the bank toward the bayou. Six pair of glowing eyes appeared above the dark water. Gator eyes were gold. These were red, and each pair set too close together, appearing almost human.

She heard rapid clicks, soft grunts, and brief overlapping trills.

The eyes moved closer, then sank.

A man wearing dark clothes and a hooded sweatshirt grabbed her outstretched hands and pulled her up the bank onto solid ground. Pale as a revenant, he had an odor like burning cedar and woody spice; light, elusive—yet stronger than the bayou stench.

He helped her stand, started to speak, then hurried away. Verity followed, until someone called her name. She turned. Jolie stood beside a small campfire.

Petite with dark eyes and a beaky nose, artistic and outspoken, her preferred clothing style had been 1950s French Existentialist with smoky eye make-up, sweaters, skirts and berets. Like one of her heroines, actress Louise Brooks, she’d worn her straight black hair in a bob cut. Now oily and tangled, it hung ragged around her ears. She wore a loose full-length purple velvet dress with glittery embroidered flowers, gold tassels and a tattered, crooked hem. She had a smell on the edge of repellent: stale musk like wax mixed with burnt orange peels.

She exclaimed, “Verity, my star-sister in the blue aetherium! Welcome to our fire!”

Caught by surprise, Verity muttered, “Yeah. You too. Jolie--”

“Are you here for our first ascension?”

Other people gathered close, smiling and talking softly, sometimes to themselves.

cJolie said, “We shall ascend to Luriel, Earth’s second moon, the lavender beauty loved by the Atlantans, and hidden by the Council of High Adepts in the Galactic Command to protect it from Earth’s pollution.”

“But you called. We thought—“

“You’re simply trapped in what is! Free yourself! Feel the healing light of Luriel on the star wind! We are reaching mass enlightenment, foretold in the Na’Caal records of Lemuria, guided by Knights of the Lost Star of Khabarah-Khan.

Verity muttered, “Jesus--”

“Yes! Among the Ascended Masters, instructing us through cosmic wisdom to see beyond the discomfort of the transition as our crystalline vibrations intensify into balanced polarity.”

Jolie touched Verity’s arm, then pulled away--exactly, Verity thought, like someone touching an object they weren’t certain was even real.

Stinking of burnt orange peels, the crowd moved closer, chanting:

“From the chamber of power we go singing to the waters--”

“Chastised, cleansed for the Ascension--”

“Guided by the messengers, guardians of earth and water--”

“Whose earthly forms in this dimension distorted by psychic pollution--”

“On Luriel, revealed as beings of light, beauty, purity--”

Lawler appeared, followed by man with thick bullish shoulders; almost bald with heavy-lidded eyes and a round fleshy face pitted with old scars.

Lawler grinned. “Hey, Laffitte. Been a long time. Missed you, girlie.”

The man stroked Verity’s arm and shoulder. Like a small gibbering animal, terror clawed at her insides. Oh God, Papa Legba, get me the hell out of here!

Lawler said sharply, “Turcas, stop it. She’s not for you.”

Looking sullen, Turcas backed away,

“Not yet. When the ceremony’s over, do what you want. But make sure no one finds the body.”

The crowd parted for Damien, holding a black cloth bag about three feet long wrapped and tied with leather straps. He placed it on the ground, then stood, face-to-face with Verity. He smiled. “You made it so easy. In the open. Street clothes. You and petite missy crasse.” He hooked his thumb at Jolie. An Enforcer gripped her shoulder, pulled her out of the crowd and guided her toward the bayou.

Verity jumped toward her. Damien threw his right arm across her shoulders. Her mingled rage and fear emerged in short explosive scream. He shoved her back.

An Enforcer pushed Paul, now without his coat, to the shoreline. Looking confused, he moved erratically as if wanting to escape but not knowing how.

Damien crouched, untied the bag, opened it and pulled out what looked like an alpine horn. Made of polished brown wood, it had holes down both sides and a few on top. Kneeling on the edge of the bayou, he placed the front of the horn level with the water. By fingering the holes, he played a weird sequence of bass notes.

Laughing and chanting, the crowd surged forward. Some waded up to their waists, raising their arms, immersing themselves, crying and praising like ecstatic born-agains in a frenzied revival meeting.

The bayou roiled with scaly bodies. Some broke the surface, rising up as if they stood on two legs. Human faces—but with fangs. Hands with claws—

People were abruptly pulled under. Screaming, others scrambled back, slamming into the crowd on shore. In Jolie’s eyes, Verity saw terror and sudden awareness, as if the physical shock had shattered whatever clouded her mind. “Verity, help me! Aidez-moi!”

“Je viens!” Verity fought through the crowd to the bayou where Jolie on her stomach scrabbled at the mud as something below the water dragged her backwards. She vanished.

Seizing Verity’s hand, the Stranger pulled her away. They ran toward the road.

In the woods, the panicked mob turned feral. People who fell in the creek, across fallen logs, or who got in the way helping injured friends were kicked, punched and knocked aside.

In the chaos, the Stranger lost his grip on Verity’s hand. He reached for her—but like quicksand the mob sucked him in. He shouted, “Je te retrouverai!”

Verity struggled onto the road into fog thickened by dust kicked up by spinning tires. People ran in all directions, shouting and wailing. Engines revved. Tires squealed, metal crunched. Darting between the cars, Verity narrowly escaped being hit. Fear gave her unnatural energy. Feeling no physical pain, her thoughts running on a level separate from her body, she ran down the road, whispering desperately,

“Jolie, I’m sorry! Mother of God, help him! Je te retrouverai! I’ll find you again…”