Jodi Redford: That Voodoo You Do

Jemma continued staring up at him, her expression blank. So much for any lingering psychic ties she might have with the coven. “This is all fascinating, Griff, but what does it have to do with my dead uncle showing up in your bedroom this morning?”

“When Rose was alive her biggest rival was a woman named Antoinette Delacroix, better known as Bloody Nettie. Antoinette performed darker magic than your grandmother. Voodoo so steeped in evil it ate away her soul.” He shuddered in remembrance of the tales he’d heard of Antoinette’s black rituals. “When Rose found out Nettie had discovered a spell that would permanently unlock the doors of death, freeing every corpse from its grave and granting Antoinette unholy power over the dead, Rose knew she had to stop her.”

Jemma gulped. “Hell yeah. A mass legion of dead Uncle Harolds running amok? Not a pretty sight. So what did Rose do?”

“She cobbled together a counterbalancing spell and proceeded to work on another that would rob Nettie of her powers for good. But Nettie caught wind of Rose’s scheme and sent one of her raised dead to murder Rose while she slept.” He heard Jemma’s hard swallow, and grimaced. Unfortunately, there was no way to paint this picture in a prettier light. “Antoinette was only partly successful. She did manage to kill your grandmother, but Rose lived long enough to enact her own death spell against Bloody Nettie.”

“Why the hell didn’t she just do that to begin with?” Jemma tossed her hands up with a grumble.

“Trust me, Rose would have. But the laws within magic can’t be trifled with. Rose was a white witch. Practicing the black arts in any form produces undesired consequences. Furthermore, killing a voodoo queen with that dark magic would only rob Rose of her powers, which it ultimately did.”

“But she stopped Bloody Nettie and her army of zombies. Isn’t that all that matters?”

“It isn’t that simple. Nettie will never rest until she gets her way.”

Jemma’s eyes threatened to bug out of their sockets. “Never rest? The woman is dead , for God’s sake.”

“Dead, but still around.” He scrubbed his hand across the back of his neck when Jemma frowned. “She’s a ghost. A very mean, vengeance-seeking spirit, which only complicates things further.”

“Call me crazy, but a ghost who enlists dead people to run her errands is complicated no matter if she’s the wicked bitch of the west or not.” Jemma snatched her glass of whiskey. She slugged down the remaining liquor and sputtered. He started to reach for her but she waved him off. “Okay, what exactly is Bloody Nettie’s grievance against me that she had to dispatch dead Harold to come after me?”

“She needs you.”

“For what?”

He unscrewed the cap from the whiskey and topped off her glass. She’d need another fortifying dose of alcohol.

“Raising her legion of zombies.”

“Oh man, this keeps getting better and better.” Groaning, Jemma plopped her elbows on her knees and buried her face in her palms. Griffin settled beside her and curved his hands around her shoulders, his heat branding her through the T-shirt. Despite the insanity that’d become her world, his presence soothed. Good ole Griff. He’d always been her rock. He massaged circles across her shoulder blades, working his own brand of magic. Her muscles started to give and she exhaled weakly. “Mind explaining to me how I’m able to raise zombies?”

“Technically you can’t—that’s Nettie’s department. But once freed from Rose’s counterbalancing spell, Antoinette would be able to finish unlocking death’s final door. Your blood is the only thing that can break your grandmother’s spell.”

She dropped her arms and peered up at Griffin. “My blood ? Oh man, I don’t think I like the sound of that. Especially if it involves killing or maiming me. You know, two activities I typically try to avoid.”

Griff’s expression remained pensive. Not exactly confidence inspiring. “We’ll keep you out of Nettie’s reach, just like we’ve always done. Rose’s spell will stay intact and everything will be fine.”

“Easy for you to say. You don’t have a big, bad voodoo ghostie and her legion of zombies thirsting for your blood.” She shivered at the horrific vision playing out in her head.

Griff leaned down and cupped her cheek, forcing her to meet the fierce determination in his stare. “The only way Nettie will ever get to you is over my dead body.” He sealed his promise with a quick kiss before standing. “I hate to cut this short, but we need to hit the road.”

“Where are we going?” Not that it mattered. Anywhere free of zombies was fine by her.

“Savannah.”

She blinked at him. “Are you nuts? That’s ground zero—where all of this crap started.”

“The coven house is the safest place for you now.” Griff cleared his throat, his gaze skittering to the bottle of whiskey, then the floor, until finally resting on his running shoes.

His shifty behavior stirred her suspicions. “If it’s so damn safe, why do you look uncomfortable as shit with the idea of taking me there?”

“Don’t worry about it. It has nothing to do with you.” The red flush crawling along his neck hinted otherwise.

“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s behind your nervous Nelly routine.”

“Nothing.”

She tightened her jaw. “You always were a crappy liar, Trudeau.”

“Damn it, Jemma, we don’t have time—”

“I mean it, I’m not budging.” She latched onto the cushion beneath her butt, just in case he doubted her sincerity.

A weary sigh snaked from Griff. “I swear you were put on this earth to test me.” Digging his knuckles into his forehead, he paced in front of the sofa. “Our…intimate relationship…isn’t going to go over well with Clarissa, the coven’s mistress.”

His admission left her puzzled. “Why should she care? It’s none of her damn business.”

Griff wouldn’t meet her eyes, and her doubts started buzzing louder than a swarm of killer bees. Releasing the cushion, she shoved to her feet and glared at him. “Should I be asking what sort of relationship the two of you share?”

“It’s complicated.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“There isn’t time to explain it now. I need to dispose of your uncle’s corpse and then get packed.” He pivoted and strode down the hall to his bedroom. She stared at his retreating rear end and imagined the faceless Clarissa squeezing a handful of his butt while he plowed into her. Jealousy speared her heart.

Great, her best friend and lover had a chick on the side, and an evil ghost needed her blood to start a zombie uprising. Far as discoveries of the day went, both majorly sucked.

They arrived on the outskirts of Savannah shortly after five. Griffin rolled his window down and inhaled the sweet, grape-soda scent of the wild kudzu growing rampant along the roadway. It’d been nearly a year since his last trip to the city. At the moment, he’d give anything to be anywhere else.

Jemma had remained unusually quiet during the majority of the drive. Her silence was unnerving, to say the least. He tore his attention from the road and glanced at her. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

She turned, her expression revealing the parade of questions no doubt marching through her mind. “You knew exactly how to kill Uncle Harold.”

His mouth twisted in a grimace. Fuck, why didn’t I just keep my trap shut? Hoping to steer her away from the loaded minefield their conversation was veering toward, he attempted to distract her with an undeniable fact. “Baby, he was already dead.”