70
Variola, seated on the floor, as far away as possible from the terrible ceremony that was taking place, spied Mrs. Martinez out of the corner of her eye, dithering by the door.
Variola knew it was over. She had lost. The ceremony was draining her of her power, sucking her very life force from her body. Mrs. Hoffman had indeed learned her lessons well. She had mastered the arts that Variola had taught her, so much so that Variola was now powerless against her. Hoffman’s power came directly from Variola; she was siphoning it off, bit by bit. The weaker Variola became, the stronger Hoffman grew.
But there was one tiny hope.
Mrs. Martinez.
“Go,” Variola whispered, and she prayed to Papa Ghede that her whisper would bounce across the room and resound in Mrs. Martinez’s ear.
The look Mrs. Martinez suddenly shot her told her that her prayers were answered.
Variola knew how horrified Mrs. Martinez was by all of this. How sorry she was that she’d ever gotten involved in such madness. It had started out innocently enough: Mrs. Martinez had been fascinated by Variola’s tales of magic in the islands, and gradually she had come to believe that such magic might help her family prosper. She had become an avid pupil, assisting Variola in teaching Dominique and Mrs. Hoffman all the arcane arts. And, lo and behold, her daughter Teresa suddenly was promoted at work. Her two beloved grandchildren started getting all A’s in school. Mrs. Martinez credited the vodou gods. She was glad to keep assisting Variola in her ceremonies with Dominique and Hoffman, and eventually their little coven grew. It had been harmless in the beginning. Spells to keep them young. Rituals to enhance prosperity. Love potions for Mrs. Delacorte to prevent her husband from straying.
Mrs. Martinez had never expected bloodshed.
Variola fixed the older woman with her big black eyes from across the room. “Go,” she whispered again. She could slip out now. No one was looking. They were all focused on the bleeding ceremony. Variola turned her eyes back to the repulsive sight. That poor girl, Nicki, who had come to this house on an errand of mercy, was hanging from the light fixture on the ceiling, her blood draining into goblets that were held by the two men. At least Nicki hadn’t suffered. Hoffman had slit her throat effortlessly, and once the girl was dead, the soulless housekeeper had had her strung up, then sliced her body in various other places, producing a flow of blood like wine from a cask.
“Go,” Variola whispered a third time, her eyes returning to Mrs. Martinez.
The older woman hesitated just a second, then slipped out the door. No one noticed her leave. A small smile crossed Variola’s face.
“Drink, my love,” Mrs. Hoffman was saying to the formerly naked woman, who was now wrapped in a gray robe and seated in a chair. Hoffman held a goblet of Nicki’s blood up to the woman’s lips. “Keep drinking, my darling.”
The woman was responding. Variola couldn’t deny that. Her eyes were becoming clearer. She had stopped trembling. She was coming back to life.
Hoffman’s magic was potent. She had learned well. Variola had to give her that.
But magic used for evil, for one’s own selfish rewards, never came to good. At this rate, however, with her strength draining nearly as fast as Nicki’s blood, Variola doubted she would live to see Hoffman’s ignominy.
“I believe she has been bled dry,” one of the men announced, turning away from Nicki’s wasted corpse.
“But she needs more!” Hoffman commanded. “She is coming back to us! She is waking up, but she needs more! And it must be given to her tonight, when the power of nature is still surrounding us, gifting us with life!”
“The blood has stopped flowing,” the man told her.
“Cut the body down,” Mrs. Hoffman snarled. The man did as he was ordered. Nicki’s body fell to the floor, a bony heap.
Suddenly, a sound from the other side of the room. They all turned.
Roger Huntington stepped out of the closet, leading Liz behind him.