Free Hounacier (Valducan Book 2) by Seth Skorkowsky

coral, growing thicker every year. He eyed one strand draped prominently along the top of a car gate, its beads composed of tiny shells and colored glass. Real beads as those were a rare treasure indeed. At least for those who didn't know better than to avoid them.
    Local spiritualists, whose clientele wished to free themselves of some emotional pain or anxiety, would have them project all their negative energy into a small stone or glass bead. Anyone accepting the bead would, in effect, take on the burden of that negative energy. Many found their way onto necklaces that tourists fought and competed for before taking them home, far away from the city. Ulises had found such bitter amusement in how many women exposed and degraded themselves to proudly earn a mantle of the pain of scorned lovers and grieving parents.
    Malcolm stopped at a simple yellow house, its porch buried within a jungle of potted flowers. He followed the wooden steps up and knocked on the door.
    It creaked open, revealing a man's tattooed face. Tight braids hung down over his shoulders. Suspicious eyes met Malcolm's, wandered down his tattooed arms to the case in his hands. "Can I help you?" Three red teardrops traced from the corner of one eye, and a tiny black cross decorated the space between his brows. This wasn't a man to take lightly.
    "Is Magdalena here?" Malcolm asked, a little worried he might have come to the wrong house.
    "And you are?"
    "Malcolm Romero."
    A female voice with a pronounced drawl called from inside. "Darius, who's at the door?"
    "A Mister Romero, ma'am," he said over his shoulder.
    "Mal? Well let him in!"
    Darius opened the door the rest of the way. "Come in."
    Maggie's house smelled of candle smoke and lemon Pledge, and the AC was about two notches too low. Wooden masks and framed photographs filled the beige walls. An offering-cluttered shrine to Simba dominated one corner. It looked the same as it always had, save for the flat-screen television where the old, wood-cased set used to be.
    "Malcolm Romero," said an old black woman in a floral-print chair. Bright eyes sparkled out from a nest of fine wrinkles. "It has been a while."
    "Hi, Miss Maggie," Malcolm said, suddenly feeling like a kid in the priestess' presence. She'd always had that effect on him. New Orleans' Voodoo Queen never forgot a name or a birthday. Though the title was one of respect rather than actual power, she carried it with the dignity of a woman born to lead. The old matriarch served as an anchor among the city's otherwise disjointed population of mambos and houngans.
    "Come on in," she said. "Sit down."
    Malcolm took a seat on the green sofa beside her. "Thank you."
    "Malcolm is a doctor," Maggie proudly said to the thuggish man now closing the door.
    Darius just nodded. He took the chair opposite the old woman.
    "Let me think…" tapping her lip. "Archeology?"
    "Anthropology."
    "Oh, that's right. Anthropology. He's Ulises' boy."
    The man's posture straightened a little, his confidence seeming to shrink a bit.
    "Darius, sweetie, could you bring Doctor Romero some tea?"
    "Yes, ma'am." He stood and went into the kitchen. The subtle bulge of a pistol poked beneath his shirt. Malcolm wondered if that was the gun that had earned the facial cross. The mark symbolized at least five kills.
    "That's all right," Malcolm said.
    Maggie just set a hand on his knee. "You're sweatin'. Help cool you down."
    Malcolm nodded. No one ever escaped Maggie's house without at least one glass of sweet tea.
    "You cut off that ponytail, I see." She leaned closer. "I like you better without it. Look like a young Martin Sheen. Anyone ever tell you that?"
    "Yes ma'am," Malcolm chuckled.
    Ice cubes tinkled as Darius stepped back in. He set a tall glass of golden tea on the table, making sure to move a coaster there first.
    "Thank you, Darius," Maggie said, withdrawing her hand. "You can go on home now."
    "Are you sure?"
    Maggie nodded. "Doctor Romero and I have a lot to catch up on. He'll