“You’ve been gone twenty-four hours,” snarled the Cajun witch, looking up sharply as she heard the parlour door swing open and hesitant footsteps cross her threshold.

The man who entered the room was so tall that he was forced to stoop, even taking into account the distinct hunching about his shoulders. He was a desperately ugly fellow, his brown hair thick and wild as hay at harvest and the copper-kettle skin of his narrow face deeply weathered. His eyes were full and bright, however, winking in the light of the oil lamp that rested upon the table where the woman sat, and his voice was rasping when he spoke.

“Things did not go according to plan…”

The woman scowled. “Evidently,” she said, her accent pronounced. “Hence you coming back to me empty-handed.”

The man’s eyes flickered around the room like tiny, desperate birds in a cage. The woman watched him, her own gaze deep and dark, just a shade blacker than her hair that she wore cropped short about an elfin face framed by a large pair of gold hoop ear-rings.

“Empty-handed, empty-handed…” the man crooned, his head twitching upon his scrawny neck.

The woman rolled her eyes and leaned back in her rocking chair. She was by no means unattractive; her dusky complexion was sultry in the half-light, whilst a pair of bare, shapely legs stretched forth from a gypsy skirt of many colours hiked about her thighs, and her sleeveless blouse was laced tightly about an ample bosom that it struggled to contain. Unfortunate then that, as she rocked back and forth, the glow of the lamp cast her handsome features with a measure of cruelty.

“Yes,” she snapped, “Empty-handed. Weren’t you supposed to bring something back with you, Simon? Where is she?”

The nervous man’s lips trembled with a sneer that revealed a cluster of misshapen, yellow teeth. He said, in an excited chitter, “I think, my love, that we should forget the latest darling addition to our little family and concentrate instead on our own well-being.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Why?” she asked, carefully. “What happened?”

The man bit his lower lip, and then began to giggle. His giggle became a snort, and then a laugh, and then he hopped from foot to foot and whooped like a crane. The woman watched impassively, although a flash of fire in her eyes betrayed her anger. Then, she reached forward into the lamplight, her fingers encrusted with rings that winked like fireflies. “Always with the insanity,” she muttered to herself, collecting something from the table beside her. When she sat back again, she was aiming a revolver at the man who was dancing spasmodically before her.

“Simon,” she said, as evenly as she was able, “As useful as you’ve been to me, I’ve invested too much time and money in this particular enterprise to allow you to ruin things for me. Now, please… come sit, and tell me everything, before I’m forced to put tiny holes in your skull so that I might personally study that malformed brain of yours, hm?”

The dancing man ceased to dance, and his expression darkened. Then, he hurried to the woman’s side. He sat at her feet, and gazed up at her adoringly, still twitching at irregular intervals. The woman smiled and slowly parted her legs wide, allowing him to move in closer, his breath hot on her inner thighs as her flared skirt rode all the way to her waist. He kissed the insides of her knees, and she shivered at his touch.

“That’s better,” she purred, stroking the muzzle of the revolver against her companion’s cheek whilst running the fingers of her other hand through his unkempt hair. “Now. Tell me what happened when you paid a visit to the lovely Francine Chevalier…”

Jericho

What happened to Francine Chevalier?

Beats the hell out of me. One thing’s for certain, however: my lovely companion, Melissa, is hitting all the right notes when she says she suspects there’s voodoo involved. I’m thinking it’s involved in a big way. JFK and Marilyn big. I can taste it on the air, like a twister about to brew. And guess who’s staring up into the darkening sky with wide, innocent eyes, like Dorothy in Kansas?

The apartment that Francine rented – and, yes, I’m inclined to use the past tense without hesitation – is located on the far east side of the French Quarter on LaQuincy Avenue, down towards the river. LaQuincy is famous because there used to a Methodist church at the junction with Rue St Charles. This church became the scene of a triple homicide one summer’s evening some fifteen years ago, long before I pitched up here. A girl, eight years old, was found decapitated and dumped at the feet of the Virgin Mary. The head turned up in the Mississippi a week later. Critters had eaten away the girl’s eyes and baby softshell crabs were busy making themselves at home in the empty sockets. Her mother, one of the figureheads of the community, had slaughtered the child after she had spilled her soup one too many times. Nothing more, nothing less; guess it was just a bad day for all concerned. Voodoo was blamed, but then it often is. There’s a Seafood Cafe on the corner where the church used to be, and they do a roaring trade with softshell crabs etouffee. I’ve never been inclined to eat there.

New Orleans has its rich and poor divide the same as anywhere, it’s just less pronounced. Ironic, considering this was the heart of slave country in the not-so-distant past. Perhaps people feel they’ve got something to make up for. They’d be right. South LaQuincy is one of the less savoury areas, with more derelict buildings sporting boarded windows overgrown with ivy and lawns gone to seed than is commonly aspired to. It’s a world apart from colourful Jackson Square with its clowns and corner jazz troupes and gypsy queens reading tarot, although in truth it’s only a fifteen minutes walk away. As we sit alongside one another in my blood-crimson Mustang I ask Melissa if she’s also resident in this part of town. She just shakes her head sadly, her expression haunted. I don’t probe any further. I remind myself that I’ve come here to find out more about Francine Chevalier, not Melissa LaVeau.

It’s tough to concentrate on the task at hand, as you might imagine. Picture Jericho Drumm, houngan extraordinaire, struggling to reassure himself that he hasn’t just bought a one-stop ticket to a world of hurt. A beautiful woman with a smile-load of sweet who claims to be related to the greatest voodoo priestess who ever lived, a woman who was also the most dangerous adversary I’ve ever faced? You can see there’d be some questions just demanding to get themselves asked. It’s just that I can’t help but think that it should all take place over a nice, candlelit dinner, with a bottle of claret and the promise of the most sinful of desserts. I’m such a dog.

“What are you thinking?” Melissa asks in her rich Creole drawl, as we sit parked up outside the gates of the grim Spanish Colonial building where Francine had, until two days ago, been renting a hundred-and-fifty-dollar-a-week room. A swan dive on the road to nowhere.

“Food,” I say, couching the truth like a professional. “You interrupted my lunch, remember?”

She rolls her dark eyes, but can’t disguise her smile, so it looks like I’m forgiven. She’s sitting so close that I can breathe in her perfume and the scent of rain in her black hair, and for a moment I’m intoxicated. Outside, the skies overhead remain as dark as besmirched steel, but just for the moment there’s no thunder in the bulkheads drifting in from the Gulf and the rains aren’t falling as they have been so mercilessly these past two weeks. Which is a shame, considering that a cold, brisk shower would work wonders for me right now. It’s typical in New Orleans to wear a thin sheen of sweat like a second skin, even in the spring before the humidity really kicks in and you spend your afternoons breathing in air the taste and consistency of turtle soup. The Mustang is doing its best to churn out air-conditioning like a hound willing to please, but it’s not that manner of overheating I’m currently suffering from.

Melissa’s raincoat has developed a habit of falling away from her lap to reveal the kind of legs that could keep you awake all night long. Her short, black skirt has ridden up and I catch a glimpse of inner thighs. It looks… tantalizing in there. I take a deep breath.

“Okay,” I say, “I’m going in.”

Melissa glances at me in surprise.

“Francine’s apartment,” I say, quickly.

“Oh. Shouldn’t we wait for that policeman to leave?”

I grimace. “He doesn’t appear to be heading out any time soon,” I tell her. Which is true. We’ve been idling here for close to half an hour, and the sour-faced detective sitting in the unmarked car parked a little way along from us hasn’t moved an inch, save for a periodic shuffling in his seat that would indicate to me a certain amount of butt-scratching or the rearranging of genitalia. When Tammy sang “Sometimes it’s hard to be a woman” she’d obviously never considered what problems men had to deal with, what with regulation slacks and leather seats on a humid day and all.

The cop’s been watching us intently. I know him. He has hair the colour of carrots that have spent too long in the sun and a face that would embarrass a weasel. His name – get this – is Dawson Creek. I kid you not. Does he get ragged about it? Hell, does Devil Dinosaur get bitter watching Godzilla rake in the big bucks? Just to be different, I call him Washington, because of his initials. I don’t think he gets the reference, but I like to stand out when everyone else is swatting him with the Pacey stick.

Washington hasn’t been able to take his eyes off the Mustang since we got here, when I circled the block twice before lurching onto the curb like a Japanese tourist exiting a topless karaoke bar at four in the morning. I know how to make an entrance. People ask me if I purchased a big, red car because I was compensating for something. Of course, I reply. I was compensating for not already having a big, red car. Stands to reason, I would have thought. What the hell do they want, the Drumm-mobile?

It isn’t the car that’s making Washington’s Spidey sense tingle, however. It’s because it’s being driven by yours truly; a charming, well-built black man with a winning smile. Take a guess which part of that statement has our local law enforcement officer chewing a wad of tobacco like a cow addicted to cud-cocaine. Washington is pure redneck stock, fourth-generation white trash. The kind of family where if you’re sister ain’t already your step-momma, it’s only a matter of time. The kind that’d be out lighting crosses on your lawn if they could work out which end of the match to strike. Needless to say, I doubt I’m first in mind when Washington is making his Thanksgiving plans, unless he’s foregone turkey in favour of roast houngan.

“So, you’re just going to waltz inside and nose around? He’ll arrest you before you get past the door.” Melissa is whispering, as if Washington possesses a third ear growing out of the back of his inbreed skull with which he can hear us clear across the street. Well, I suppose you can’t be too careful.

“I agree,” I say, “Which is why I’m not going in myself.”

“You’re not? But you just said… wait a minute, you want me to go in?”

“That would hardly be chivalrous.”

“So, what then?”

I wiggle my eyebrows, in what I have been told is an authentic Tom Selleck style. If Tom Selleck was black and even more disarming, of course.

“Does your forehead itch?” Melissa asks, concerned. “Y’all look like Tom Selleck when you do that. Just less disarming.”

“Bite me.”

“You know, you’re not at all what I expected,” Melissa says, eying me curiously. “All the legends in the Quarter about you have you pegged as grim… obsessed. So deep in the whole voodoo persuasion that you’re almost like a zombie yourself. But you’re not such a cold fish.”

“Well, that’ll teach you not to believe everything you read,” I tell her. “I get bad press.”

“Obviously. So does this mean that the rest of it’s false, as well? That y’all have never met Spider-Man or The Avengers, or fought against the ‘powers of darkness’?”

She tries to sound frivolous, but her eyes are wide and betray her fascination. I smile grimly.

“No,” I say, “That’s all true. Evil is a subjective term, but there are enough bad people intent on causing harm that I’ve inevitably found myself rallying against them alongside the costumes you read about in the papers, or see on CNN. Some of us just don’t hog the limelight as much as others.”

Melissa regards me warmly, and for a moment I almost forget why we’re here. The more time I spend with her, the more of a resemblance I can discern between her and her alleged ancestor, Marie LaVeau; in this instance it’s because Marie often utilized a similar mystic capability that I myself possess, that of being able to entrance just with a particular setting of the eyes. Hypnosis, but more so. I see this in Melissa now. I’m drawn to her, my senses clouded slightly by a veiled magnetism she’s possibly unaware that she’s projecting. Or it could just be, as I’ve mentioned, that she wears legs like a debutante wears money.

“Uhm,” she says, voicing my exact thoughts but also breaking the mysterious spell between us. Her voice is a tad husky, suggesting that she’d been momentarily bewitched by me just as I had by her. “At least you’ve passed on that horrible costume you always used to wear. It was exciting when I was a girl, seeing your picture in the papers like y’all were some kind of superhero. But it might’ve been a little embarrassing if I’d shown up at your office today and found you looking like a camp Christmas tree.”

“Actually,” I say, through gritted teeth, “I still wear that costume. Sometimes. I just thought it best to keep a low profile on this occasion, until I knew what I was going to be up against.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“And what do you mean, camp?”

“Well, you know. Bare-chested, with those tight, chase-me calf-length trunks, and the cape…”

“It strikes fear into the hearts of my enemies.”

“You think? I reckon it makes them so horny they have trouble running away.”

“You don’t like bare-chested?”

She looks coy. “In some circumstances,” she says. “Hercules, for example…”

“Hercules?”

“Ah mean, there’s the muscles, and he’s got the whole almost-naked-but-for-the-peepshow-thong thing going on that just makes a girl feel a little light-headed and round-heeled – ”

“Jesus. Hercules?”

Melissa shrugs. “Hey. Personal taste.”

“Or lack thereof.”

“Have I offended you? Are you sulking?”

“Of course not. That would be camp.”

“I’m glad you recognise that.”

I sniff and flex my not inconsiderable muscles, quite by accident. Of course, I’m not in the Hercules class, and I’m currently clad in a leather jacket, white shirt and Levis, but even so. I’m sure my obvious buff-ness has an effect on my lovely yet misguided companion. She certainly looks appreciative.

“So what happens now?” Melissa asks, casting me her brightest smile.

Again I wiggle my eyebrows, before remembering that this didn’t impress her the first time and thus ceasing with no little haste. “Now,” I tell her, “It’s time for Daniel to take the lead.”

“Daniel?”

I smile. “It’s the reason that Jericho Drumm is also known as Brother Voodoo,” I say, grandly.

Melissa doesn’t appear any the wiser. It seems that the local newspapers she used to read didn’t delve with that much detail into my secrets, which I can accept. It’ll just make what she’s about to witness all the more impressive. I settle back into my seat, and close my eyes. I raise my hands in front of my face, and breathe deeply. I press my fingertips to my temples. I concentrate on Daniel – on his face, how I remember it when he died and therefore how he appears to me now.

I focus on the essence of him that currently continues to exist inside of me.

There are a numerous aspects to what are often referred to as the dark arts. Voodoo originated in Africa but truly gained power as a religion in the Caribbean some four hundred years ago. I was born in Haiti, where the ancient energies were most potent, although by then voodoo had also been strongly established in America’s deep south for over a century, remaining vivid and alive among the slave population who toiled along the Mississippi, from New Orleans to Lafayette and Baton Rouge. In standard tongue, voodoo is a rich and heady blend of the darkest aspects of West Indian fetish worship and the Roman Catholic idolisation of saints, and it most commonly manifests in the form of blessings, potions and charms to try and better one’s life whilst guarding against malignant and mischievous spirits. However, anyone foolish enough to delve beneath the surface and meddle with what they find soon discovers that there’s far more to this ancient magic than rune-carved trinkets and powders composed of dried lizard skins. For beyond all that there are the Loa, the voodoo spirits.

Most texts refer to the Loa as an idea given substance by belief, but this could be true of any figurehead of worship. The Loa are far more than this. They existed before mankind came to prostrate themselves before them, offering blood and hate and sex in exchange for the fulfilment of wishes. The Book of the Vishanti links Damballah, one of the most powerful of the Loa pantheon, with Set, one of the Egyptian Elder Gods. But then the Vishanti is the sorcerer’s equivalent of The Bible – littered with exaggerations and half-truths, and always open to personal interpretation. One thing I do know for certain: Doctor Strange, this world’s master of the mystic arts, has battled devils and demons and other-dimensional despots without batting an all-seeing eye. Yet any time he has ever travelled to New Orleans to deal with the Loa, he’s packed extra underwear.

To truly understand the nature of voodoo one must embrace a certain acceptance of science, so often the adversary of magic. The human body is an incredible machine, the complexities of which mankind will perhaps never fully appreciate, but ultimately it is simply that – a machine. Organic, rather than metals and wires, but still a systematic construct. People then turn to the soul for answers to what comprises the individual, but again science gives us a certain answer. The soul is merely energy, the energy of life, which powers the body’s engine like any other fuel. The true miracle is in the way the soul energy and the body interact. This is where life becomes more than a sum of a heart pumping blood, a brain processing information and the spark of emotion and self-preservation prevalent in all living creatures. Voodoo is the concentrated study of the body and soul as both separate entities as well as this amalgam, and thus, in terms of religion, is likely the closest to any kind of universal truth that’s to be had.

Any standard voodoo practitioner can – most infamously – raise the bodily remnants of the deceased as zombies. This is simply the process of reanimating said corpses by channelling soul energy through them, as once occurred naturally. Yet there’s typically no replication of life itself in this act. When one has embraced the teachings of the Loa to the fullest extent, however, then there can be manipulation of the spirit as well as the body. My twin brother Daniel died six years ago, the victim of a voodoo curse inflicted upon him by a sorcerer claiming to be the physical manifestation of Damballah. In a typical case, Daniel’s soul energy would’ve been naturally dissipated and recycled upon the expiration of his body, but a houngan named Papa Jambo performed a mystic rite that enabled Daniel’s spirit to remain whole and to enter my body where it would reside thereafter. I can now summon Daniel forth at will to augment my own not inconsiderable powers and to also project him into the bodies of others whereupon he can possess them for brief periods of time.

It’s rare for any houngan, or bokor – a Voodoo sorcerer rather than priest – to allow a second spirit to inhabit their body. Sometimes, when I cause Daniel to manifest, I can understand why. It isn’t that it causes me pain or weakness. It’s that, when I haven’t let him loose for a while, he can be a real pill.

“Yo, Jay-Dee, wassup? Long time no see,” Daniel says sarcastically as his spirit materialises in the back seat of the Mustang. He appears to me as young, strong, and good-looking – you can tell that we were twins, know what I’m saying? – but also, alarmingly, in the spirit equivalent of street gear, complete with hooded jumpsuit and fingers laden with gold sovereign rings. Oh, man.

“Hello, Daniel,” I reply, with admirable patience. “What’s with the bling?”

“Hello, who? What?” Melissa glances around as I speak for the first time in a few minutes.

“My brother’s spirit is sitting behind us,” I tell her. She bolts forward like someone’s goosed her ass. If Daniel could affect the material world in his current form, I wouldn’t put it past him. All these years as an incorporeal entity has, among other things, left him as horny as a buck rabbit.

Melissa whirls around. “There’s no-one there!”

“Only I can see him,” I say. “And, believe me, in his current state, that’s probably a good thing.”

Melissa eyes me suspiciously. “Uh-huh. Can you make it so that I can see him too?”

“That would be astral manipulation,” I tell her, “Which is sorcery, not voodoo. Doctor Strange, he can do astral. I have a brother spirit that no one else can see.”

“Damn, Jay-Dee, she’s hot!” Daniel whistles, leering towards Melissa with a wide grin on his face. “But, m’man, she’s what – eighteen? What, you done goin’ through some mid-life crisis hula? You gone down to Satrbuck’s, got yourself some fresh crème?”

“Shut up, Daniel.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Nice weather for ducks’.”

Daniel grins. He has a ruby embedded in one of his front teeth. Spirit ruby, spirit teeth, but even so. This is too much.

“What’s with the new look, Dan?”

“Hey, bro, bling’s the thing. Anyhow, it’s your bad. Ain’t nothin’ for me t’do, sittin’ round in your head doin’ jack, waitin’ for you to summ’n me forth, know what’m sayin’? So’s sometimes, when you think you’s sleepin’, I’m getting’ you watchin’ cable. Bad Boys. New Jack City. She’s Gotta Have It. Word, m’man.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger. I can feel a headache coming on.

“Dammit, Dan. Last time you did this, it was Starsky and Hutch re-runs. You spent the best part of three years thinking you were Huggy Bear. I really don’t want to go there again.”

But Daniel is already gone, drifting up through the roof of the Mustang as only a spirit can. I sigh and get out of the car, with a confused Melissa following close behind. Daniel wheels in the air, revelling in his freedom. Over in his unmarked car, Washington is paying strict attention – to Melissa and I, at least, rather than Daniel, who he can’t see any more than Melissa can. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

“I need you to possess someone,” I call up to my brother’s spectre.

Daniel glares down at me. “Hey, yo. Like I couldn’t see that one comin’. Not like you ever let me out on purpose to see no movie or go shoot some pool wit’ the crew, now, huh? I gotta do that all by damn lonesome…”

“You possess my body to go shoot pool?”

Daniel bites his lower lip.

“Look,” I say, “Right now, I don’t care. Are you going to do this, or are you going to be a smart-ass?”

“He’s being a smart-ass?” Melissa asks.

“He’s always being a smart-ass.”

“Reminds me of someone I know.”

I ignore her. “Come on Daniel, this is important.”

The spirit of my twin brother sweeps close, rolling his eyes. “Okay, okay. Who’s you done got for me this time? Brother Samedi? Marc Spector?”

“That policeman sitting in the car over there.”

Daniel looks, and his eyes shoot wide. “Aw, man,” he squeals, “Not that hillbilly, chicken-sticker, white supremacist ass-boy. How come you never get me possessin’ no hot-pants, ra-ra voodoo mamas?”

“Because you’d never get any work done?”

“Damn straight,” Daniel mutters. “Tell ya, wouldn’t be watchin’ no cop-shop re-runs if there was some fine eighteen-year-old crème booty shakin’ cinnamon on my cappuccino, know what’m sayin’?”

“Are you going?”

“Yo. I’m on it. I’m on it. But, hey, next time you done find y’self in the Big Apple, how’s ‘bout we track down that Clea chick and be showin’ her a whole new dimension, know what’m sayin’?”

And with that, Daniel’s spirit floats begrudgingly over towards Washington’s car, unseen by all save for myself. I watch him go, scowling.

Melissa stares at me. “Okay,” she says. “Ah take it back. Maybe y’all are that weird, after all…”

Ten minutes later, the three of us are standing in the apartment where, up until recently, Francine Chevalier lived. Although I’m sensitive enough not to say anything of the kind to Melissa directly, I’m convinced that this is also where Francine died. Certainly, wherever she is now, she most probably isn’t living. Unfortunately, in New Orleans, that means very little – but, hey, you work with what you’ve got and keep an open mind.

“She was saving her money,” Melissa says, somewhat defensively. “She was going to New York.”

She’s telling me this because she sees something in the way that I’m analysing the apartment. Her suspicions are unfounded. I’m not the judgemental type. Threadbare furniture and peeling paint on the walls is luxury compared to some of the squalor that I’ve seen in my life, not only in New Orleans or Haiti but also in many other parts of the United States and the world beyond. The sadness that Melissa can evidently observe in my eyes is because I know that, as little as all this amounts to, it belonged to a woman who won’t ever be returning to claim it. One can’t help but be a fraction heartbroken at that.

The third person in the apartment besides Melissa and myself is Washington, whose fiery copper hair and the proud beginnings of a beer gut compliment a face that suggests he lost a bet in Ugly Dice. Only, of course, the real Washington – racist halfwit with a badge, which makes him twice as dangerous – is currently sleeping the good sleep, in a spiritual sense. It’s Daniel’s ghost who’s controlling his physical body. And he isn’t best pleased about it.

“Carrot cop’s already been through everything in the room,” Daniel says, in Washington’s voice, which is unpleasant for me and downright disturbing for Melissa.

“And what did you – uh, he – find?” I ask.

“Nothing that’s going to shed any light on where this missing filly is. But it’s a pretty safe bet that wherever she is, she’s dead.”

I see Melissa wince, and I glare at Daniel. I’m sensitive. My brother, he has something to learn. At least he’s no longer speaking quite so much like the lovechild of Martin Scorsese and Spike Lee. When Daniel’s spectre enters the body of another he tends to appropriate their patterns of speech as well as a few of their surface mannerisms. Hence why he – as Washington – is currently chewing tobacco with seeming relish and fingering the revolver holstered upon his hip like it’s a .24 calibre itch, whilst drawling like John Wayne with a hit of Cajun.

“Why do you think Francine’s dead?” Melissa asks, composing herself admirably.

“It’s something only the police know about, sweetheart,” Daniel-as-Washington explains. “I can only gleam parts of it from this guy’s mind, considering he’s far too obsessed with grease-burgers and underage cheerleader downloads to allow much room for actual criminal investigation, but in the past two weeks there’ve been a number of abductions of young women in the Quarter. Specifically women who work in bars and strip clubs. Dancers.”

I look at Melissa, who appears shocked. Not as shocked as I am. “Do you know anything about this?” I ask her.

“No. Nothing. Well… my club is short a couple of girls at the moment, aside from Francine, but Jacqui said it was the ‘flu.”

“Your club?”

“The Cat Lick.”

“You’re a… dancer?”

She gives me the look. Not a look, the look. You know the one, don’t pretend otherwise. “Does that matter, Mister Drumm?”

I pout. “Who’s Jacqui?”

“Jacqui Castelle,” Melissa says. “She owns The Cat Lick.”

“And you dance there?”

“So did Francine. Remember her?”

I catch a glimpse from the corner of my eye, a mock-disapproving look from Daniel in his policeman host. Even when he’s out of my body I can tell what he’s thinking. I ignore him.

“I need to speak with this woman,” I tell Melissa, and she nods. There’s a steely glint in her dark eyes that suggests she’s thinking along the same lines. I wonder if she knows something about Jacqui Castelle that she hasn’t mentioned. The same as the way she didn’t mention that she was a dancer. Not that she would have mentioned that, because it’s none of my damn business. I need to get a grip.

I ask, “What’s the story with these missing girls, Daniel?”

“Aw, shucks. Do I have to go digging around in Washington’s psyche? It’s like a student dorm in here, all dirty socks and sticky tissues. It’ll take days to get the stink off me when I get out.”

“You’ll live,” I say. Then, I smirk. “Well, actually, you won’t. But you know what I mean.”

“Ha ha. Jericho Drumm, voodoo comedian.” Daniel scowls. “Okay. There’ve been a dozen others. Francine would be the thirteenth. All missing from their homes, with no sign of a struggle despite lengthy screams heard by neighbours in most cases, including this one. No bodies or body parts found relating to any of the vanished persons.”

“So why do the cops think voodoo’s involved?”

Daniel looks at me, and I can tell from his grim expression that I’m not going to like what I’m about to hear. “They’re getting advice along those lines,” he says. “From Valencia Devereaux.”

I curse, and a startled Melissa stares at me. “Who?”

“Old friend,” Daniel says. “Well, of somebody, I’m sure. Just not us.”

I scowl, forcing myself to breathe evenly. “Valencia Devereaux,” I tell Melissa, “Is an anti-voodoo activist. There’s quite a number of them in New Orleans, which is no surprise considering that Louisiana’s the only state where the religion is legally acknowledged, but Valencia’s the most vigorous in her pursuit of the cause. She’s Catholic, but that isn’t the root of her grievance. She’s just fervently devoted to the eradication of voodoo. She’s very wealthy, with a lot of time on her hands, and she has a heart of garlic soaked in vinegar. All together, a wholly inflammable combination.”

“She’s also Jay-Dee’s ex-wife,” Daniel adds, helpfully.

Melissa’s eyes widen. Mine narrow.

“Thank you, Daniel,” I hiss through gritted teeth. “I almost forgot that. I’m thinking, maybe I’ll just let you rot in the bowels of Washington’s shell for a while. Sound good?”

Melissa says, “You married an anti-voodoo activist?”

“She wasn’t anti-voodoo then. And I wasn’t a houngan. This was when I was studying in America, whilst Daniel was still alive in Haiti. We were young and impulsive. And at least one of us turned out to be a raving lunatic. It wasn’t the greatest foundation for lifelong harmony.”

“Ah think you grow more fascinating with each passing moment, Jericho Drumm.” Melissa’s eyes sparkle darkly.

My heart yaps, but I throw it a biscuit to calm it down. I turn to Daniel. “If Valencia claims there’s voodoo involved, then she’s probably right.”

Daniel nods. Melissa looks confused.

“Valencia may be poisonous as a sackbut of fiddlebacks, but she’s also clever as hell,” I say, regretfully. “Her success in campaigning to stamp out the voodoo religion is based on collating strong, factual evidence about the negative aspects of the arts. She wouldn’t risk her reputation by claiming these missing women were victims of voodoo-related foul play unless she had proof it was true.”

“So – another person for us to visit?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Melissa looks a little uncomfortable, so I try to appear less tense and more approachable. Which is difficult now that all I can think about is Valencia, and how I want to voodoo her upside the head.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Have you ever considered that she might be right?” Melissa asks. “This Valencia, you claim she wants to see voodoo eradicated – well, wouldn’t that be a good thing? As an ancestor of one the most infamous witches in this city’s history, I have to say it seems that voodoo causes an awful lot of harm.”

I sigh, and bow my head. I want to tell her that she’s wrong, but of course I can’t. Voodoo is a religion, and the nature of religion is that it’s pure in conception but only until subverted by man. Most cultures worship a pantheon of gods – for voodoo it is the Loa – and this makes it easy to excuse violent and unjust behaviour by deeming that to be the province of a similarly inclined deity. For example – step forward, Loki. Christianity and Roman Catholicism is perhaps the most obvious exception, where believers worship just one God, but this has just resulted in a singular higher power who seems to distribute health and suffering in equal measure without cause or reason, thus rendering much of the general populace confused in the nature of their faith. Perhaps this isn’t surprising, in that if a god is created in the image of man then this god is going to be fundamentally flawed and drawn towards war and hate as much as peace and love, just as man would be.

Mankind utilizes the voodoo religion for its own ends, and the Loa, having no real purpose of their own other than to demand worship, have adapted seamlessly. Whereas I may call upon their divine magic to aid me in a search for justice and an end to sorrow so the same gods, most notably the serpentine Damballah, will empower other voodoo practitioners so that they might propagate wrath and sin.

It’s a vicious cycle that might only be broken by one such as Valencia Devereaux, who seeks the abolition of voodoo in its entirety. But what might she replace it with? A new religion which those around her would inevitably adapt for their own benefit, giving them strength whilst I would be left with none when I come to strive against the evil that would surely threaten as it’s always done?

“When this is over,” I tell Melissa, sincerely, “I’ll explain everything to you. About your ancestor, about the origins of voodoo which have never become public knowledge. Then, perhaps, we can have this discussion.”

Melissa smiles, the kind of smile that gives my old heart golden wings. “Deal,” she says.

“For now, however, one last task,” I murmur, turning to Daniel. “If there was voodoo at work here, then there’ll be echoes – and there’s a unique ability that my brother and I possess that will, for all intents and purposes, allow us to glimpse a fractured image of the past.”

I close my eyes and begin to regulate my breathing, bringing on a state of deep trance with the barest effort. In the body of the policeman, Daniel does the same. Melissa merely watches, as fascinated by this as she has been by everything thus far. Again she reminds me of Marie LaVeau, a woman whose existence was coloured by the unending quest for knowledge to quench her curiosity. I can only hope that Melissa, unlike Marie, doesn’t ever feel the irresistible desire to immerse herself in darkness in pursuit of the understanding she seeks.

Again, there’s the ghost of science in this element of voodoo mysticism that Daniel and I now conduct. Sonar is a system using transmitted and reflected sound waves to detect and formulate a three dimensional image of a physical object. What Daniel and I now do is probe the ether of our immediate location, seeking recent activity involving the channelling of voodoo energies – and, because there are two of us, the dual echoes that we create can be utilized to render a picture of events rather than a flat, ambiguous response.

The first thing we can visualise is an alien presence in Francine Chevalier’s apartment – a figure, hunkering in the darkness. This is the source of the voodoo activity that has, as Valencia has rightly communicated to the police, been present here. No doubt Melissa picked up on the same disturbance in the ether, albeit to a lesser extent – just enough to convince her to seek my services. We see Francine arriving home… and then, there’s sudden interference. A pulse, loud and steady, building quickly, until it consumes everything around it – Daniel and myself almost included.

A beat. Like that of a heart. Or a drum.

Daniel and I pull back quickly, this insidious voodoo shriek like acid sprinkled upon our exposed psyche. However, just as we are about to return to the present world where Melissa anxiously awaits us, I glimpse something. It’s the faint echo of another source of voodoo magic, and I instinctively probe the general area from which it emanates.

The response is flat, unhelpful – until, at the last moment, Daniel realises why I’ve slowed my retreat and adds his twin sensory perception to mine. The reflection results in just a second or two of clarity, but that’s all I need. I recognise this face I see: a scrawny man with beady eyes and wild, brown hair, and a grin overflowing with dirty teeth.

And then we’re back, awakening from our dual trance, and Melissa is there by my side, her eyes bright with concern.

“What happened?” she asks. “What did you see?”

“Some things I didn’t quite understand,” I say, slowly. “But one thing I did. The face of a man well known to me, a man I’ve crossed swords with a number of times before.”

I exchange glances with Daniel, whose host is wearing a grim expression. “Simon Charles,” we say, in unison. “The Black Talon.”