M. Hanover - Darker Angels

The scales shone silver in the bright halogen glow, and the needle-teeth were white as ivory. It wasn’t the Legba that had come from Amelie Glapion. This snake was thinner, faster, and brighter. Something about it reminded me of the awkwardness of adolescence, though its motion was perfectly graceful. It turned to me, and I knew that if it lunged for my neck, I wouldn’t be able to protect myself. The broad head turned to the darkness and the mist. A black tongue flickered.

“Carrefour!” Legba called, its voice a clatter and a hiss. “You have trespassed!”

The serpent swam through the air like an eel in a drowned city. I forced myself up to sitting and did my best to follow.

Carrefour stood in the pathway between shed and house holding Mfume by his neck in one thick, monstrous hand. The others-Aubrey and Ex, the cultists of Amelie Glapion’s congregation-stood still as statues as Carrefour let his once and present victim slide to the ground. I wanted to move forward, to help, but I barely had the strength to keep my eyes open. I wondered almost idly how much granting my will to help Legba’s birth had cost me.

“Legba,” Carrefour said. “Petit Legba. You are born in time to die. The shortest life. Come to me, Legba the brief.”

I propped myself against the doorframe. I couldn’t stand. I couldn’t fight. Carrefour strode across the night-dark, fog-shrouded space, and I didn’t doubt for a second that this new Legba was just as screwed as I was.

The serpent spoke.

“Louvri,” it said, and I knew what it meant. Open.

I caught my breath. Behind Carrefour, Aubrey lifted his head. The motion was slow, like something happening underwater. Aubrey turned. His face looked wrong; thinner, sharper. He stepped forward, and his shirt and pants hung loose on his body. He was skeletal, and when he spoke, it wasn’t with his own voice. It was Marinette’s.

“There is no place for you here, brother.”

Carrefour spun. Aubrey took two steps forward, and the transformation was complete. The burned flesh, the skeletal thinness, the vicious eyes. But there was something of Aubrey in it too. Marinette’s gaze flickered to me and turned back to Carrefour, more angry than before. Man and rider weren’t in conflict this time. They had both come to kick some ass, and I found I had the energy left in me for a grin. In the dark air above me, Legba shifted its silver coils, a thousand colors dancing on its scales like a sheen of oil on water.

“Marinette,” Carrefour said, its hands out before it, the knifelike claws now pleading. “Please, my love, do not stand with them against me. We are Petro, you and I.”

“Your love ?” Marinette said. The contempt in its voice would have peeled paint. “Radha, Petro, Ghede. What does tribe matter here? I am loa. What are you?”

“I will not be stopped,” Carrefour said, but it wasn’t a threat. If anything, the rider’s landslide of a voice sounded sorrowful.

“You will,” Marinette said, and Carrefour leaped at her. With a cry like joy, Marinette met its charge, and the impact made the ground shudder. Marinette was thin, but solid as stone. Carrefour didn’t treat her gently. It swung its knives, kicked, bit. Marinette blocked the blows with her forearms-with Aubrey’s forearms-and Carrefour’s claws skittered off them, shredding the sleeves of Aubrey’s shirt, but doing no other damage that I could see. On the other hand, I couldn’t see that Marinette was doing more than holding Carrefour at bay. It was like watching lions fight. Huge beasts, filled with almost unimaginable violence, inhuman and strong and awful.

A movement caught my eye. One of the cultists- Omar, I thought-bent his arm, pressed his hand against the ground, rose up. Then a woman on the other side of me. And another. Changes were taking them as well as they stood witness to the battle. I saw Aunt Sherrie, but she had also become a horribly scarred woman with a baby in one arm and a wicked knife in the other. One of the men whose name I hadn’t known had a wide, jolly face, a tuxedo, and a clay pipe that he was smoking with the bowl turned down. Ex moved, crossed his arms, frowned. His skin was whiter than snow and glittered in light I couldn’t see. A fleur-de-lis was on his skin like a tattoo made from light.

As the transformations came, something in me grew very still, like a mouse trying not to be noticed by a gathering of cats. I had felt riders pressing at the fabric of the world, had felt them trying to force their way into my own flesh. I had never felt the raw power that stood around me.

And slowly, Carrefour became aware of it too. Its battle with Marinette became sloppier, more distracted. Marinette pressed its advantage, but it seemed to me it was more proving a point than trying to win. Carrefour broke off, backing away from the thing in Aubrey’s flesh. The man with the upside-down pipe shook his head in disgust.

“My brothers!” Carrefour said. “My brothers, I have returned. Rise up! Rise up with me!”

None of the loa moved. The expression on the thing’s face had gone from glee and killing rage to a mixture of sadness and fear, and I understood what I was seeing.

Carrefour had been sent out, away from its people, away from its family. It had been lost and alone in just the way it had isolated the men and women it rode. And here were its family, its friends, its community arrived together to cast it out again. I almost felt sorry for it.

But not quite.

“You broke faith. You took the part of the Graveyard Child against us,” a woman’s voice rolled in from my left. “And we cast you away. Now you return as our enemy once more.”

“No,” Carrefour cried. “No, I have come home.”

“You have killed Legba’s queen and sought the slaughter of the spirit itself,” the woman’s voice went on. “We condemn you, Carrefour. You have no place among us.”

“Gran Maître!” Carrefour cried, but the words that followed were lost. The roar wasn’t sound or vibration, it wasn’t the rush of a waterfall or of flame. The unleashed will of the riders filled the crossroads, a maelstrom that tore like winds and pounded like a ship broken free of its mooring slamming itself against the dock. For a moment, I was lifted up on it, carried out of myself by just the backsplash from it. Magic spilled though the cracks between seconds, lit the individual atoms, screamed joy and vengeance and something more primal than either.

And then, from the center of the storm, silence. Or no, not silence, because I could hear the distant chirping of crickets. The battle between the loa might still be going on, but it had moved out of the crossroads, out of the world. Out of the thin sphere of human influence.

“Holy shit,” someone said from the darkness. The blasphemy had more sense of real awe than anything I’d ever heard in a church. “Oh holy shit.”

And then another voice cut through the darkness, high and thin as a violin bowing a single, plaintive note.

“Where am I?” Karen Black said. “Where am I?”

She was standing naked in the fog, her pale hair plastered to her head and neck. Her ice-blue eyes were wide and frightened. Blood was running freely from her shoulder where Mfume’s hooked chain had ripped the flesh, and from a dozen other shallow cuts. The red tendrils of it made me think of a dragonfly’s wing.

“Karen,” I said, levering myself up to squatting. My head swam. Sabine Glapion appeared at my side, free of her chains, and helped me stand. I felt eighteen kinds of damaged, but seeing Karen look at me, seeing her recognize me, seeing her remember was the worst thing that had happened all night.

“No,” she said, as if asking me for something. Begging.