Free Hounacier (Valducan Book 2) by Seth Skorkowsky Page B

to move into Ulises' old home," she said, her tone suddenly businesslike. "My boys can help you get things set up."
    Malcolm hid his apprehension behind a final sip of tea. "It's not necessary, but thank you. I won't be staying that long."
    The queen's brow arched pointedly. "Why not?"
    "I have obligations I need to attend. My Order needs me too much."
    Maggie drew a patient breath. "Malcolm, Hounacier is part of this city. She belongs with her people. Your only obligation is to her. With Ulises gone, you must take his place."
    He shifted under the old woman's gaze. "It's not that simple."
    "Yes, Mal, it is. It's time to move home." She nodded to Hounacier. "Ask her. She'll tell you where she needs to be."
    #
    Following the walk alongside a white concrete wall, Malcolm mulled over the voodoo queen's words. He'd never wanted to upset the old woman, but trying to explain himself was useless. She'd lived in the city her entire life. It was the world to her. Malcolm had seen the world. He knew how big it was. Hoarding Hounacier in just those pockets that practiced her religion was selfish. Too many people needed her.
    The wall opened to a black, wrought-iron gate, and Malcolm stepped through into Saint Roch cemetery. Following the necropolis' streets past moss-dusted tombs, he found his way to a large mausoleum. White marble sealed each of the four vaults. Two were so old and weathered, their graven names were but memory. The third denoted Edith Moore, who died in 2003. Ulises Belair's name marked the fourth and newest slab.
    Fresh and wilted flowers lay on the ground before it, alongside dozens of coins and colorful trinkets. Several more coins clung to the vault's face, affixed with candle wax. Burned stubs lay scattered about as well. Malcolm ran a finger along a triple-X scratched into the marble. Four more similar marks adorned the façade—one in charcoal, another in blue paint pen. Long ago an over-dramatic tour guide had started the tradition of defacing Marie Laveau's tomb with the same mark as a means of gaining luck. The practice took off, and the lines between fantasy and religion blurred and melted as more people subscribed to the ritual. Belief made the magic real, and now, it seemed the city was canonizing Ulises as one of the voodoo kings to be paid tribute. Malcolm snorted, wondering if the old sorcerer would have ever imagined it.
    He pressed his hand against the smooth stone. A moment of pain as the tattoo-lid opened. Malcolm closed his eyes, hoping, praying to feel his old friend inside.
    "I'm sorry," he muttered. "I should have called…visited more. I should have been here." Guilt coiled and balled in stomach. It was too late for apologies. "You used to scare the shit out of me, you know?" He chuckled. "You were so damned intimidating. So serious. Then…then you became my fucking dad." Malcolm cleared his throat, fighting back tears. "I never told you that. I never knew my own father, and then once I had one, I fucking neglected him. I'm sorry. I'm sorry we fought so much. I…I'm going to find who did this to you."
    The tattooed eye stretched wider until it felt as if the skin might rip. "I love you…father."
    The tattoo faintly throbbed. Love. Malcolm couldn't tell if it was real or imagined, but accepted it nonetheless.
    Malcolm closed his hand and wiped his eyes. Glancing around to be sure he was alone, he opened his case and removed the machete. Reverently, he slid Hounacier from her sheath and pressed her against the old man's tomb. "We'll make this right." Malcolm drew a breath. Held it. "I promise."
    After a few silent moments, he returned Hounacier to her case and snapped it shut. Next time he visited, he'd mark his own XXX with the blood of Ulises' murderer.
    Trapped in thought, he stepped out of the cemetery yard.
    "Welcome home, Milky."
    Malcolm spun.
    A disheveled white man with irregular dreadlocks squatted against the cemetery wall. His eyes were rolled back like veined, white orbs. He