Desperate to find some kind of control and stop my runaway mind, and body, I blurted what I’d been wondering earlier. ‘Why don’t you have a nickname for me?’
Lincoln smiled, his hand tightening around my waist. And when he spoke his voice sounded raw and not like anything I’d ever heard from him. ‘Oh, but I do, baby. I just wasn’t sure you were ready to hear them.’
Them.
Oh.
Lincoln won. I closed the distance. A voice in the back of my mind whispered that I was going to regret it, even as my blood ran hot. My body fitted to his as he made a sound and pulled me closer. Memories of everything right with this world, of being alive, being human, flooded me as I flashed back to the night he’d held me in his arms – me as his, him as mine.
How could something so right be wrong?
I love you, too. I. Love. You. So. Damn. Much.
Enough to let him go?
Enough to deny myself?
Enough to walk away?
I gasped, pulling back and throwing up my reluctant emotional walls. Lincoln released me as if he’d known it was coming. He didn’t argue or try to touch me again. Instead he reached into his pocket, threw a few bills on the table and gave himself a small nod before looking into what had to have been my ghost-white face. ‘Let’s get you back,’ he said gently.
But I just don’t know if there is any way back from here.
CHaPteR tweNty-SIX
‘In order for the light to shine so brightly, the darkness must be present.’
Francis Bacon
I struggled with my thoughts and emotions as I tried to regain some measure of control. The late-night streets of New Orleans were in full swing and the life of the city bled into me. We brushed past such a mix of people, and many of my initial thoughts of horror were dampened by the sights and sounds of laughter, by people coming together both young and old, by the diversity of races. This city was unique not just because of its French–Spanish–American origins but also the adversity its people had been forced to face.
As we wandered, Lincoln allowed me to put a little distance between us again and calmed my runaway mind by explaining some of the history. How when the French owned the land the Roman Catholic Church, keen for converts, had insisted on baptising many of the slaves and teaching them the ways of Catholicism. But the slaves were not so easily convinced and took their true religion of Voudon underground, eventually driving out the French and the Catholics. But it was the combination of these two religions that really birthed what Voodoo is today.
Lincoln led me through the streets of the French Quarter until we came to a huge church in the central square. I pointed to the building next to it, where there was – oddly – a large speedboat wedged into the front porch.
‘Hurricane Katrina,’ he said. ‘The waters came up so high they brought in all kinds of things. The people left that one as a memorial.’
His words and the image of the speedboat triggered something in me. For the first time, I really looked at this city, slowly turning around and seeing the faces of New Orleans. Gypsies rimmed the square, selling their fortune-telling services to gullible tourists while locals sat at nearby tables and worked in overflowing restaurants. The city was alive with activity, but the whispers of past hardships remained in their eyes. I could see it now. But I could also see the light: the passion and strength within that had driven them to fight back, to defend their lives, their families, their homes.
‘Tell me more,’ I said, pointing to the church.
Sensing I needed to hear and understand all I could, Lincoln continued the lesson, explaining that in the 1830s, Marie Laveau became the first Voodoo Queen. She was a devout Catholic and brought many to the Voodoo religion, performing public rituals right near where we now stood, out the back of the St Louis Cathedral. She took the religion to new heights, declaring herself the Pope of Voodoo and recruiting new followers by introducing prayer and saints.
‘Do you think she was under Sammael’s control?’ I asked.
‘I’ve been wondering about that,’ Lincoln replied. ‘Much of what she did is still debated. Some see her as a cult leader and a devil-worshipper; others want to see her sainted. Some say she brought the darkest of magic; others say she represented the good in spirits and nature.’
‘What do you think?’
He shrugged. ‘I think there’s a chance she was Nephlim. I think she may have used illusion, exotic concepts and extravagance to gain a devoted following. But as much as Sammael might have thought he controlled her, I’m not sure he did in the end.’
‘She became too powerful?’ I asked.
He nodded. ‘Possibly. I think that might be part of why he was so determined to control anyone else who threatened his throne.’