The orchestra began a new song. Lovely. Mournful. The kind of number that swept you along in the gentle swell of its waves, each lambent note begging you to follow it to its very end.
“Get up, love,” Jon the Conjurer said, a hint of a laugh in his voice. “A queen never kneels.”
Jon was different than he had been that fateful day ten years ago, when he had been chained to the flogging post. The man before her was no slave. He held himself tall, dignified, reeking of self-assured power. His eyes were as she remembered: keen, almond-shaped, molten like the liquid gold the alchemists sought. His hair was full of beautiful dark coils, longer than she remembered. His right ear bore a curious little piercing, an amber crescent moon.
“Hello again, Jon,” she finally said.
“Marie Laveau.” He spoke her name softly, like a spell, his gaze raking over her. “Shall we have this dance?”
He offered his hand. Marie stared at it, acutely aware that a manlike Jon did not offer himself so freely, even for a dance. She had to remind herself this was the man who’d nearly undone her queen, who was supposed to be the strongest of them.
Marie hesitated, cheeks burning as Jon waited patiently for her next move. She had nothing to fear, really, Marie reminded herself. This was the game Sanite had asked her to play, after all. And what danger was Jon the Conjurer to her? If it was the throne he was after again, he could have it once Marie got what she wanted from him.
Marie placed her hand in his warm, strong grip. He pulled her into a dance, and they fell into easy step, familiar with each other in a way that startled her. His hand lightly caressed her lower back, and she shivered. Dappled starlight shone above them, winking in and out as they glided across the mist-covered cobblestone.
“You make for a vision in white, Marie. Tell me, did you choose the color in remembrance of the day you married your husband”—his eyes fell over Marie’s white owl costume—“or in mourning for the day hedied?”
Marie’s mouth quirked into a wry smile. He hadn’t intended to wound her, she realized. He was testing her. “Both.”
“Did you like my invitation?” he asked, a touch of dark mirth in his voice. “I confess I made a bit of a mess trying to reach you.”
“I would prefer if you had not killed men to get my attention.” Her eyes slowly found his, the gold searing her just as intensely as the first time she had met him. Her heartbeat quickened.
His hand was on her cheek again. Marie did not shrink away from his touch. How long had it been since a man had touched her? Since anyone had? It was lonely work, the work of Voodoo. Jon knew this best.
“They were no innocents, priestess,” Jon said softly. It was as if he could read her thoughts, as if he too were remembering that day they stood in the dusk together beneath the crows. “You know what they are. What they do to us. And you do not care?”
She cared. Those men had been masters in every sense of the word. They owned folks because they could. But there were some free colored Creoles who owned their own people too. Would Jon kill them as well? She stared into his eyes and saw cold resolve.Yes.Yes, he would if it came down toit.
“You’ve made things considerably difficult for the Voodoos, Jon. Sanite Dede is not happy with your handiwork.”
“When is that old crone ever happy with anyone?” This drew a laugh from Marie, and he stared down at her, eyes twinkling.
“I confess, even after everything…she is fond of you. Why do you think you still yet breathe in her city?”
“Hercity? If this were truly her city, do you think our kind would walk about collared and heeled like fucking dogs begging for scraps?” Anger deepened his voice now. Magic vibrated from him, emanating along his skin in cold waves.
Marie grew silent. Jon spun her in a twirl, and she fell into his chest, against the hard, corded muscle beneath his shirt. Marie blinked, gathering her senses about her. She had one mission. One task to be done. Nothing more. “Sanite wants you gone by dawn.”
“And you?” Jon asked, drawing near enough that they might kiss, his lips a breath from hers. “What do you want, Marie?”
He was watching her closely, a glimmer of mischief in his dark eyes. Another test. “Things you couldn’t possibly give me,” she said at last. “Not yet.”
“I could give you power beyond your limits, priestess. Show you magic older than this land”—his gaze flickered to her lips, then back up to her eyes—“and pleasures you’ve not dared imagine.”
A shiver down her belly, between her thighs. “Tempting words, I confess,” Marie breathed at last.
“Words have power, Marie. Cut a man’s arm off and he’ll use the other to steal. But cut off the tongue? He’ll be left without a proper sword to defend himself,” Jon said with an impish smile.
“Sword?” Marie’s eyebrows drew together in mock confusion. “You speak as if this is a battle and not a dance.”
“A battle, no.” He stilled, their dance done. “Butwar?” He leaned in close, lips brushing her ear. “War I will have, and war I will win.”
A scream tore through the sky. Another. And another. Marie turned, shocked to see men and women on the ground, writhing in agony, blood and black bile spurting from their mouths. A gentleman standing next to Marie dropped his goblet, splattering wine down his front. He clutched at his throat, clawing at his own skin asif it were a collar, eyes bulging.
Marie whirled to Jon, who was watching the man as if trying to work out a particularly vexing puzzle. “Jon! What have you done?”
“Only what I must.” Jon was smiling now, and Marie was reminded of Corbin’s words, his saccharine voice at her ear.You may wear a mask, but I have glimpsed the face that lies beneath it.This was not the face of a trickster, some parlor charlatan, or a lowly shape-shifter. Those were only the stories Jonwantedthem to believe. This was the face of the fallen, of the devil himself. And in his eyes burned the intensity of a single word:revenge.
