Twenty-two years had passed since the Mãe de Santos had introduced Serafina to her gods and initiated her as an Umbanda medium. Twenty-two years had also passed since Serafina had walked away from the deceitful priestess. Serafina had seen a great deal of hardship in those years, but none of it came close to what she had suffered to become who she was today. Or more accurately, what she was today.
The darker side of spiritualism was not practiced in plain sight nor did its priests and priestesses advertise their whereabouts, at least not the ones Serafina had wanted to find. The Quimbandeiras she had sought did not concern themselves with spiritual evolution and do-gooding. They certainly did not soften their spells and rituals to curry favor among the Umbanda Mothers and Fathers of Saints. Those that did were frauds—like Isolda—only instead of playing at goodness, as the Mãe de Santos had done, those false Quimbandeiras cloaked themselves in sexy mystique to impress the ignorant.
Serafina wanted true power.
In order to find it, she had traveled to dangerous places, such as Bairro da Paz, ironically named since drug factions constantly warred in the Neighborhood of Peace. A gangster’s bullet had narrowly missed her heart as she put herself in risky situations, as she had with the Quimbanda priest who liked to drain blood from his sleeping acolytes then serve it back to them in their coffee. In the end, she had found what she sought and had the scars and wisdom to prove it.
Serafina reached her long arms up to the night’s sky beyond the canopy of trees. No church or barn for her: Serafina wanted her feet in the dirt and the stars overhead.
She had found a clearing in the forest of eastern Simões Filho, which, along with nearby Salvador where she had grown up and Lauro de Freitas where Carlinhos now lived, was one of the most violent cities in Brazil. Her forest terreiro was close enough for those in need of Quimbanda to reach her and far enough to provide absolute privacy. She practiced her magic around a tree-stump altar in a circular dirt clearing and lived alone in a cabin she had built in the trees. She answered to no one and helped those she wished, like the man standing before her inside the chalk circle she had drawn.
Jian Carlo Resende was everything Serafina wished Carlinhos had grown up to be: strong, daring, and ambitious. As with most Brazilian men, Jian Carlo was not tall, but what he lacked in height he made up for with broad shoulders, a lean stomach, and powerful thighs. He played hard, fought harder, and pursued his desires with determination and a moral dexterity she admired. The orphanage where he grew up, in the slums of Salvador, had taught him hard lessons that he used to claw his way—with her help, of course—into the lucrative business of fine wood export. He was an impressive man and an invigorating lover.
“Hold. Very. Still,” she said, exhaling cigar smoke with every word.
He blinked. Other than that, he obeyed, letting the sweat drip down his face and neck and into the collar of his fine cotton shirt.
Serafina arched her back and brushed the sheer fabric of her red peasant blouse against his lips. Even then, he remained still, except for the swelling organ in his slacks that reached out of its own accord to betray his desire.
Sexual energy was the source of Serafina’s power. It wasn’t something she had learned or acquired. It was part of her soul, inherited from past incarnations. It had taken time to master, although at forty-eight, Serafina was no longer controlled by her desires. Instead, she funneled them into her spells and generated more power than any Quimbandeira in Bahia.
She stretched her fingers to pull energy from the heavens and kneaded the ground with her toes. Mothers of Saints—like the traitorous Isolda—could hide within their walls and roofs, but not her. There would be no obstructions between Serafina and her gods. No acolytes to channel the spirits.
She blew a final puff of smoke to the sky, laid the hand-rolled cigar on the altar along with her other offerings, and nodded for Diogo to begin beating the rhythms that would help her call the gods. He slapped the center of his weathered atabaque in a slow and measured beat, cupping and flattening his hands to change the depth and resonance of the sound, while his fingers tapped and skittered along the edges of its hide, adding a layer of intricate higher tones.
Serafina’s hips and feet responded of their own accord, as they always did when Diogo made the atabaque sing. Together, they communicated their urgency and passion through sound and movement until Diogo’s drumming and Serafina’s dancing had synergized into a power all its own. From this power, Serafina’s words of praise emerged.
“Hail, Yansã!
Queen of the Wind and Rain.
Yansã with your luminous crown.
Your child gives you respect and love.
Hail, Pomba Gira!
Queen of midnight.
Answer the call of your
Faithful daughter.
For the presence of fire,
For the inspiration of air,
For the virtues of water,
I call to you, my queens.”
She held out her hands to indicate the offerings she had left on her tree stump altar. “See the crown and knife, Yansã? See the perfume, cigar, and cachaça for you, Pomba Gira? Take them and think kindly of your daughter, for she has need of your skills.”
Diogo altered his rhythm to a pulsating beat and deepened the tone of his thumps and smacks. The unfamiliar beat made Serafina’s groin clench with excitement and fear. She threw Diogo a questioning glance, but he was lost in the new rhythm, head lolling and eyes glazed, as if the beating drum had taken possession of him. As it was taking possession of her.
Serafina spun like a whirlwind with her arms stretched wide and her red skirt fanning. With every rotation, she whipped her head and flung her wild hair in tight circles, propelling herself faster and faster until the stars and trees combined into rings of light and dark.
From this frenzy, a new chant emerged.
“Hail Exú!
Master of Magic,
Lord of Chaos,
King of the Seven Crossroads,
Hear my call.
Come to me, Exú.
Immortal Trickster,
Intermediary to the Gods.
Shower me with power.”
Around and around she went, whipping and chanting, over and over, until she crumpled into the dirt, mouth agape and limbs sprawled like a discarded puppet. The air thickened and obscured the trees. A throbbing pulse swallowed the sound of Diogo’s drum. Serafina’s heartbeat matched the pulse—answering, joining—until the two sounds became one. A flame, hotter and brighter than any bonfire she could have ignited, formed into the most magnificent male she had ever seen.
He stood at least nine feet tall, hairless skin shining like oiled night—black, mysterious, and seductive. Ropes of muscle and sinew flexed beneath his sleek skin. A blood-red cloth hung from the center of his low-slung golden waistband, like a dart to the dirt between his feet. He held a giant golden key, as a king would hold a scepter, with the teeth pointing down and the three loops of the handle pointing up like a crown. In the other hand, he held a heavy wooden club varnished to the same blood red as his loin cloth. The muscles in his arms and torso flexed with the force of his grips and displayed more cuts and bulges than Serafina had ever seen on a human body. And those legs. Meu Deus. How she wanted to run her hands up the ridges of those calves and thighs.
She forced her gaze higher, to regain her composure, and focused on the large red beads looped around his massive neck. She slid her gaze higher still, and the light from his golden almond eyes pierced directly into her soul.
“Exú?”
His chin raised in answer, sending a quiver of electricity through her body.
When preparing for battle or summoning storms, Serafina called to Yansã, the Goddess of Wind and Rain. When she needed to manipulate relationships, begin or end pregnancies, or control a person through sexual energy, she called on Exú’s consort, Pomba Gira. Never, in all her years of practicing Quimbanda, had she ever dared to call on Exú of the Seven Crossroads, nor had Exú of the Seven Crossroad ever appeared to her. She knew of his reach and influence. She understood the havoc he caused, the power he wielded, and the risks she would take if she invoked him.
Or so she thought.
“Please. Please,” she begged, too awestruck to articulate what she needed. She only knew she would die if she did not receive it.
Exú laughed, tossed the club and key into the dirt, and grabbed her by the hips. She arched, powerless to stop him and equally powerless to assist. Balancing her with one hand, he used the other to hike up her skirt, flung aside the flap of red cloth hanging between his legs, and plunged deep inside her.
Serafina screamed—first in pain, then in exquisite pleasure, and finally in triumph—as Exú took her for his own.