Crescent City free porn video

Crescent City By The Professor It felt good to be home again. For those of us born and bred in New Orleans, the rest of the world is a strange place, lacking the grace and gentility of our city. Only in the Crescent City could her children ever feel truly at home. Had it not been for pressure from my family, I never would have left ? even to go to college. But for my family, every eldest male had been packed off to Harvard since the early part of the nineteenth century. I often found myself envying my younger brothers in that they had choices that I, as the oldest son of one of New Orleans' most prominent families, had never had. My family had been an important part of Southern tradition and a fixture in Louisiana since Jean Devereaux came to the New World from Marseilles to make his fortune in the last half of the eighteenth century. And what a fortune he made! By the time of the Louisiana Purchase, he was a prosperous planter in what is now St Charles Parish. By the beginning of the War Between the States, Willow Glen was home not only for the Devereaux clan, but for three hundred slaves and overseers as well. Even the end of the war meant only a small setback for our family. As Reconstruction ebbed and the traditional powers of Southern aristocracy arose once more, our family took its "rightful" place in polite society, becoming a leading force in politics and commerce. Banks, shipping, and agriculture were the foundations of the family fortune, but the Devereaux family, like the Roman nobility they admired, eschewed active management of their enterprises by the beginning of the twentieth century, choosing public service ? or expressed another way ? political power as a way of life. Now, as a new century dawned, a new and unexpected power had stepped onto the stage: magic. When Webster and Kline unwittingly released magic on an unsuspecting world only a few years earlier, it meant an upheaval in our society which threatened the traditional powers, but once again, the Devereaux family's luck held, and it appeared as if once more our family was destined to prosper, in spite of rather pedestrian magical talents. My father now headed the Federal Bureau of Magic for the Southern Region. With any luck at all (and our family abounded in luck), he could eventually lead the entire agency if he so desired ? an agency which had eclipsed the fame and power of the FBI in the annals of American law enforcement. But he had other aspirations. Of course, like most people of my father's generation, he had little magical ability. In fact, he had no magical ability at all. Only those of us who reached puberty after the unleashing of magic seemed able to do well on the WK test. My own score was high enough that I was near the top of all male scores in the nation, although I would have scarcely been in the top third of women's scores. Still, that would be high enough to eventually propel me towards the upper echelon of management in the FBM. The Bureau prized magical ability far more than experience, so some of the people in positions equivalent to my father's were still in their twenties and thirties. With my abilities, our family influence, and my father's position, I would be on the fast track at the Bureau from the moment I graduated from Harvard in the spring. That was in a nutshell my father's plan. I would work for the Bureau mostly in name only while picking up a law degree at Tulane. Then, after I had served a minimum amount of time with the Bureau, I would be selected as the youngest Regional Director in the FBM ? all before I turned thirty. My father, on the other hand, seemed to have taken an interest in more active politics in the last few years. I had no doubt that he was just biding his time, waiting for the right opportunity to come up. Then he would run for office. Given his name, contacts, and wealth, he had a better-than-even chance of being elected to any office in the state. Once situated in a comfortably powerful position, he would be able to direct my own career, depending upon a loyal follower to run the office until I had all the appropriate tickets punched. Of course, in many parts of the country, such power and influence from a single family ? passing down a powerful position from father to son ? would be unheard of. But this was the Crescent City, where such things had happened since the days of French and Spanish rule. Family connections were important everywhere, but in New Orleans, they were essential to success. My thoughts were interrupted as I heard someone bustling in from the kitchen. I smiled as Lisa, out maid, brought me a cup of the strong black coffee we Louisianans favored, along with two of her own beignets ? pastries that were far superior to those served at the famous Caf? du Monde. She gave me a genuine smile, white teeth shining surrounded by an ebony face. "It's good to have you back, Mr. Robert," she said sincerely in that Southern drawl favored by most older servants in the city. Lisa had been with the family since I was a little boy, making our townhouse in the French Quarter as charming and genteel as Willow Glen itself. Although no longer a young woman, she was still attractive, as was everything we Devereauxs surrounded ourselves with. "It's good to be back," I told her, returning the smile. As I sipped the coffee, washing down the sugary taste of the first of the beignets, I felt the warm spring breezes on my face. The sweet smell of magnolia blossoms from the garden below our white wrought-iron veranda where I was sitting was pure heaven. I couldn't help but think about my unfortunate classmates up north, forced to "enjoy" spring break in the chilly northern winds as winter only reluctantly loosened its grip. I shivered at the thought of northern winters. At least this one had been my last. I had returned to Louisiana every spring break since I had begun my college career at Harvard, but this spring break promised to be special, indeed. Mardi Gras came at times which always seemed to conflict with my class work, but this year, by pure luck, spring break had been scheduled to coincide with the most exciting time of the year in my home state. Most tourists associate Mardi Gras with the great drunken mob that rules the streets of the French Quarter every spring just before lent. But for those of us of financial means fortunate enough to grow up in and around the Crescent City, it is a time of exciting balls and important events. More than a few Southern women could proudly boast that their hands were asked for in marriage at an elaborate krewe ball in one of the city's finest establishments. For anyone not born and raised in the South ? particularly the Mississippi Delta of the South ? the concept of a krewe is a little hard to explain. I would usually just tell Northerners that it was a local social club, but in fact, it was something more. Krewes determine social order in New Orleans, membership resembling a combination of an exclusive club, a civic organization, and a badge of honor. They also organize the most exciting parades and events surrounding Mardi Gras. In short, they are the true souls of Mardi Gras, without whom the celebration would be meaningless. Of all the krewes in the city, none was more prestigious than the Krewe of Pliny the Elder. One of the oldest continuous krewes, it was founded by one of my ancestors and boasted among its membership some of the cream of Southern society. By right of birth, I was, of course, a member, as were my brothers. The Grand Ball of the Krewe of Pliny the Elder would be held that very evening, and I had come into the city the evening before from Willow Glen to have lunch with my father the next day and prepare for the parade and celebration. There was another event I wanted to prepare for as well. The previous evening, I had picked up a very special ring for a very special lady. That very evening at the ball, I intended to ask Alexandra Pierpont to be my wife. It would be a marriage that would have all of New Orleans society enraptured. It certainly would not be an unexpected engagement, though. Alex and I had known each other most of our lives. Both of us came from prominent French families, and both were expected to marry well. We would not disappoint. Actually, we had talked about the possibility of wedding when I had been home at Christmas, but we had put off any formal announcement until Mardi Gras. As I said, many young women proudly boasted of their engagement at a krewe ball. Obviously, both sets of parents would be pleased since my father and Alex's father had encouraged our relationship for some time. The engagement was a mere formality. We had agreed it was the right thing to do. She would, of course, say yes. Were we deeply in love? That was something of a question. We certainly enjoyed each other's company, and unlike prominent couples of an earlier era in the South, we had already enjoyed each other's bodies before betrothal. I think in many ways, we were going to be married merely because it was expected of us. It had not slowed me down from dalliances back in Cambridge, and I suspected Alex had her own beaus at Tulane. I doubted if either of us would be willing to give up such pleasures entirely, even once we were married. In this way, too, I would be carrying on a family tradition. My family's comfortable townhouse in the Quarter was often the site of liaisons between my father and a variety of discrete partners. I'm not just speculating; it was widely known and so common among his peers that it scarcely attracted notice. I made my way from the French Quarter to my father's office at the New Orleans Federal Building over on Canal. Now there's another New Orleans oddity for you ? Canal Street. It's so named because at one time a canal was planned for the place where the street divides the business district. The canal was never built, but the street assumed the name. What other city would name its main street for a canal that was never built? The Federal Bureau of Magic occupied the better part of an entire floor in the building ? an indication of the growing importance of magical influence. In fact, it was per capita the largest regional office of the FBM ? probably because New Orleans had always had a taste for magic, even before Webster and Kline had unwittingly released true magic on an unsuspecting world. "Hey, Robert!" I turned to see Helen Davis get off the elevator next to mine. Helen was one of my father's top field agents. Like most of the best agents in New Orleans, she was female and black. Females usually had more magical ability than males ? something about the Y chromosome inhibiting magical ability ? and blacks had more contacts with the predominantly black magical community of the city. No one had ever come up with a good reason for blacks having more magical ability than whites, and only in a few cities like New Orleans did it hold true to begin with. I had always thought it was because the local black community had believed in magic, in the form of Vodun ? Voodoo for the tourists ? practically since the founding of the city. Helen was dressed in a tastefully cut business suit of white linen. It contrasted nicely with her mocha-colored skin, and with her athletic build and short hair, she could have been mistaken for Halle Berry. I gave Helen a warm hug. I had known her for years. I was just barely in high school when she joined dad's team, and to tell the truth, I had developed more than a little crush on her. As I had grown older, the crush had faded, but a fast friendship had developed. "How have you been, Helen?" "About the same as always," she laughed, but I could tell from her tone that something was bothering her. I couldn't tell what it was, so I let it go. If she wanted to tell me, she would get around to telling me. Other agents from my father's staff heard us talking and rushed over to greet me. I didn't flatter myself by imagining that I was really such a popular person. I had always been friendly to my father's people, and I suspected most of them did actually like me, but their effusiveness had much to do with the fact that I was the boss's son. Still, I genuinely liked and respected all of the people on my father's staff. One in particular ? Uncle Avery ? was even family, in spirit as well as in fact. Avery Monaigne was my father's right hand man in the office. Unlike many of the Regional Directors, father had chosen a man to be his number two based upon his administrative skills rather than magical ability - surprising given my father's complete lack of magical talent. It had proved to be a cunning move politically. Uncle Avery freed up my father to pursue his other interests, such as politics while Avery did all of the grunt work. And since Uncle Avery was actually shirttail relation to the Devereauxs ? a distant cousin to be exact ? the blood ties allowed my father to feel certain of his loyalties. My brothers and I had grown up calling him Uncle Avery, which pleased him immensely. Sarah Carmichael was with Uncle Avery. An attractive young redhead, she was in charge of fields operations, so she was number three in the office. Given the lack of magical ability in her superiors, she was the magic expert in the office. Organized and aggressive, I had no doubt that some day, she'd be called back to Washington where she would be part of the inner circle of the Bureau, which most field officers derisively called the Wizard's Council. Both Avery and Sarah greeted me warmly, and I couldn't help but note that my father couldn't have chosen two more different people as his chief aides. Uncle Avery was pushing fifty rather hard, complete with an expanding gut and thinning hair. He might have been reasonably handsome in his younger days, but he was going to be a dumpy old man someday. Of course, living in New Orleans was never good for the waistline. Five star restaurants occupied practically every corner in the city, and Uncle Avery appeared to have enjoyed them all. "Good to see you, Robert," he drawled, extending a pudgy hand. I shook it firmly but quickly to avoid the smell of garlic on his breath ? ruminants of a rich New Orleans breakfast, no doubt. It was amazing that a man so bland could be so flamboyant in his eating habits. "How's Harvard, Robert?" Sarah asked, squeezing my hand. Sarah was a Yankee with only a couple of years under her belt in New Orleans, but nearly ten years with the FBM. She was a tall redhead ? a couple of inches taller than Uncle Avery, in fact. She was trim and fit and bordered on being beautiful. But dad hadn't entrusted her with field ops for her looks. Sarah was one of the premier magic talents in the entire agency, scoring the third highest mark ever recorded on the Webster-Kline scale. "Harvard's great," I told her, adding, "But Cambridge is cold." She grinned. "Don't I know it." Bostonian by birth, she was well aware of how miserable her home climate was for a poor Southern boy like me. Of course I would have my revenge when summer came and Sarah sweltered in the unaccustomed Delta heat. "Robert!" a deep, resonate voice boomed from the direction of my father's office. "Come on it, son." I turned to face my father, and I thought ? not for the first time ? that he certainly looked the part of the successful politician he wanted to be. Patrician with his square jaw and iron gray hair, he had the resolute expression of a natural leader. Although I was certain he had been in the office since seven, as was his habit, his dark suit and white shirt looked so fresh and crisp a casual observer might think he had just donned them. His tie was the sincere red all politicians favored. He motioned for me to follow him to his office. "I tried to reach you before you came over," he told me, "but Lisa said you had already left. Make yourself comfortable. Helen, why don't you get Robert a cup of coffee?" Helen looked a little embarrassed. I couldn't say that I blamed her. She was a field agent ? not a waitress. "Thanks, Helen," I said politely, "but I'm fine." She gave me a smile of relief before I turned to head for my father's office. As I sat down in one of his comfortable leather guest chairs, I reflected upon what I had come to believe was my father's greatest fault. Although raised in the New South where merit and position were becoming more a function of ability than sex or color, he was of the Old School. His treatment of Helen was ample evidence of that. Although she was arguably his best field agent, he treated her about the same as he treated Lisa or any of our other servants. He was polite ? even gentlemanly ? but convinced that he was superior by virtue of sex, color and breeding. I often wondered why blacks like Helen put up with the backward attitudes of men like my father. The only conclusion I could come to was that New Orleans was their home as much as it was ours. To their minds, it was better to live where they wanted to live rather than go someplace where the social climate was more favorable. Helen's family went back in Louisiana almost as far as ours, although she was not exactly of slave stock. Her first ancestor to come to New Orleans had been a free black, and her family had been free from then on. That's another thing a lot of Yankees don't know about, but there were always free blacks, even in the Old South. Of course, the other side of the ledger was that they weren't treated as equals. "So how are you and your brothers getting along?" my father asked, rushing back into the office with a thick folder in his hand. "Fine," I lied. Paul and Lance were two and four years younger than me respectively. Since I was the eldest of the three boys, there had always been a certain amount of enmity between us since as the eldest, I had been tapped by my father to assume the family mantle. It was I who was sent to Harvard while Paul was packed off to Tulane. Lance would join him in another year. It was I ? by virtue of both my majority and my WK scores ? who would be brought into the FBM to eventually contend for my father's job when he decided I was ready for it. It was I who my father had mentored in both my academic and personal life, making certain that I would be successful in all of my endeavors, since it was I who was destined to lead the Devereaux family once my father was gone. That isn't to say that Paul and Lance were deprived. As sons of the Devereaux family, they were given opportunities that would have been the envy of even some in our own social circle. Money, cars, ski trips to the family home in Aspen, and other perks of the wealthy were theirs for the asking. I can even say that my mother had always been more partial to both Paul and Lance than she was to me as if to offset my father's favoritism. What they envied me for was the knowledge that they would always be 'Robert's younger brothers' and their achievements would always be compared and subordinated to my own. "Good," my father grunted. I don't think he necessarily believed me, but it was the answer he expected. In his mind, Devereauxs did not complain to each other about family problems. He knew I didn't get along with my brothers, but he also knew I wasn't to speak of it. He sat down gingerly with a contented sigh, the leather of his chair crinkling to fit his trim body. The chair fit him so well that I was certain it had been spelled to fit him precisely. "I'm going to have to cancel our luncheon, I'm afraid," he began with a note of sadness. "Oh?" He nodded. "I had our table reserved at Antoine's," he sighed. "I'm sorry we haven't had much time together during your break, but we're in the middle of a very big operation. You're welcome to use the reservation if you'd like." "I will," I told him. I, too, was a little saddened. I had seen little of my father during my break, and the luncheon was to have been our opportunity to talk one-on-one in a casual, comfortable environment. He was silent for a moment. "You are going to propose to Alexandra at the ball tonight." It wasn't a question. I frowned. "How did you know? Do you have a Prognosticator in the office?" I had often suspected my father was using the magical talents of his staff to foretell my future. The suspicion did not please me. "Don't worry," my father laughed. "Yes, I do have one on staff, but I didn't need her for this. Avery saw you leaving the jeweler's yesterday and put two and two together. He's rather good at that, you know." I relaxed a little. "Well, now that you know," I drawled, "what do you think?" "I think you've made an excellent choice," my father said smiling. "The Pierpont family will make an excellent alliance for us." I nodded. My father was right. We were rich, but Alex's family was filthy rich ? and at least as well connected politically as we were. When my father finally decided which office to run for, Alex's family would be valuable allies. My father didn't bother to ask me if I loved Alex. While our mutual attraction was obvious, love would remain problematic for now, and given my father's proclivity for women, I knew it really didn't matter one whit to him if I loved her or not. Still smiling, my father reached for his phone. After announcing himself to the party he had called, he continued, "My son will be using my reservation today. I would like him to be served a bottle of champagne. Make it the Krug ? the Special Cuvee. And put it on my bill, of course." Yes, my father was very pleased, I thought. We said our good-byes. We would meet that evening at the krewe ball. Until then, my day was free. I would now be off to enjoy lunch at Antoine's, but it somehow seemed a shame to dine alone. "I thought you were going to lunch with your father," Helen called out to me as I was about to leave. I shrugged. "Apparently duty calls." I nodded toward my father's office where Uncle Avery and a couple of other men I didn't know were entering for what looked to be an important meeting. "Aren't you going to the meeting?" I asked. Now it was Helen's turn to shrug. "I'm not senior enough for that meeting." She tried to look as if it was a matter of no importance, but I had known her long enough to tell from the look in her eyes that she felt she had been shut out of a major project. Now at least I knew what was bothering her. On the spur of the moment, I asked, "Then you're free for lunch?" She looked a little hesitant, as if accepting would be somehow wrong. "I don't think your father would like that..." she began. I shrugged. "My father's in a meeting. Besides, you've got to eat. And I, for one, hate to eat alone." I could see her struggling with the invitation. I suppose I had spent way too much time up North. I had forgotten that there were still archaic rules Southerners still played by. The days when restaurants were "White Only" were long gone ? gone before either of us could remember. But a social caste system had continued, even if pure segregation has ended. She must have known my father would take me to his favorite restaurant, and for his son to be seen dining there with the hired help of any race would be a social gaffe. "Are you sure?" she ventured. In reply, I offered my arm which, to my pleasure, she accepted with a nervous but heartfelt smile. The maitre'd was too cultured to show any alarm at a bi-racial couple. While the d?cor and superb fixtures spoke of an earlier time in the South, blacks were as welcome as whites in Antoine's. Perhaps an aging businessman looked a little disturbed as we walked past, but whether that was because Helen was black or just very attractive was subject to question. Helen seemed a little relieved when we were led into a small, private dining room, but by the time we had been seated and given menus, I could see the wheels turning behind those beautiful brown eyes of hers. I decided to set her mind at ease. "Don't worry, Helen. We weren't seated in here to hide us. This is my father's favorite table. This is called the Last 1940 Room. It's the smallest and most intimate of the dining rooms here. I suspect my father often brings young women here." Helen looked a little embarrassed. "I had heard that he did." I just nodded. "My father's trysts are well-known, I'm sure." "He's a good boss," she insisted. "But he treats you like a servant," I pointed out indelicately. She didn't respond, for the waiter appeared at that moment. After we had ordered, she said, "He doesn't mean anything by it. He grew up in a time when men ? white men ? were still mostly in charge. He treats blacks and whites alike in the office." I suppose that was somewhat true. He treated everyone at the office as if they were his social inferiors. He wasn't unkind to them; he just made sure everyone knew their proper place in the pecking order. "I think he treats me the way he does more because I'm a woman than because I'm black." I just nodded. I suspected she was right. His opinion of women was not terribly high, as evidenced by the way he cheated on my mother with apparent regularity. Even Sarah he had not so much accepted as used, as one would use a tool to accomplish a difficult task. Still, I knew that Helen's career had plateaued as long as my father was in charge. Her magical abilities, her hard work at LSU and her sterling record with the FBM would mean nothing when it came time for promotions. She'd be always be what she already was ? a field agent ? for the rest of her life. When I joined the Bureau, I'd already be my father's heir apparent, and competent people like Helen would be denied promotion by virtue of my leapfrogging over them. I didn't like it, but as I said, I was the eldest of the Devereaux sons, and expectations were pressed on me whether I wanted them or not. "You could always go into private practice," I suggested as the waiter brought the Krug my father had requested. "I understand a lot of the best magical practitioners are doing that now. I hear the money is much better in private practice." "It's true," she acknowledged, accepting a glass of the champagne. "Several people have left the Bureau over the last few years to join the private sector. A friend of mine ? Brian Wallace ? has a new agency over in Algiers." Algiers was just across the river. "He used to be with the Bureau. He asked me to join him, but I don't know." "Well, give it some thought," I urged her as I took a sip of the champagne. It was excellent, of course. "You sound like you're trying to weaken your father's team," she laughed. "Not really," I replied honestly. "After all, I plan to be on the team when I graduate. I'm just looking out for you. My father is wasting your talents. I know Brian, and I know he's a good man." She grinned at me, savoring the champagne. "He's a better man than you'll ever know." I grinned back. I was glad to hear she had someone in her life. I had known Helen long enough to know it would take one hell of a man to attract her interest. "Well," she teased, "you know you have to have pretty good magical ability to get on the team..." Helen knew I had by far the strongest magical ability in a family not known for its magical talents. Actually, I was rather proud of my magical ability. While it wasn't exceptionally strong, I had an unusually high degree of control over it ? something many Pushers lacked. Rather than answer her, I just stared at he champagne glass. She gasped a little as the bubbly liquid rose out of the glass, retaining its shape as it floated a good three inches above the rim. "That's great!" she giggled. "I've never seen anyone who could keep the shape intact like that." "It's a good parlor trick," I told her, concentrating carefully to hold the proper shape. "I can do a lot more. I'm a top-rated Pusher." "Please, sir," the waiter said quietly as he brought our gumbos, "we have a rule against any magical displays on the premises." I gently lowered the champagne back into the glass. It wouldn't do to get thrown out of Antoine's, after all, and I couldn't maintain the control more than a few seconds anyhow. Besides, it wouldn't do to waste the excellent champagne by having it splash out of control all over the table. I decided to change the direction of the conversation and satisfy my curiosity. "So what are all the big meets at my father's office about?" "I don't know if he wants me to say anything about it," Helen replied coyly. "Besides, I'm not in the meeting, remember?" "Aw, come on, Helen," I begged. "You know everything that goes on in that office. You always have. Now what's my father up to this time ? something to further his political ambitions?" She thought about it for a moment, staring at her glass. At last she sighed and I knew she had decided to share the story with me. "Have you ever heard of Mama Juno?" she asked. I thought for a moment. "Isn't she that Voodoo queen over on Magazine?" "She's more than that," Helen told me, taking a sip of a well-seasoned gumbo. And nodding her approval at the savory dish. "She's into smuggling as well." "Drugs?" "That ? and anything else that needs to be smuggled. Her gang got into a turf war with the local mob. The Mafia's just too old fashioned, Robert. Their guns and threats lost out to her magic and finesse. The FBM got involved when she was suspected of smuggling some heavy-duty magically charged objects out of the country. You know, much of the world has very little magical power, so some of these charged objects are worth a small fortune." I nodded. Washington had come to realize that magic involved more than mere parlor tricks and could have military potential. Export of magically enhanced objects was subject to Federal licensing. I imagined the turf war she mentioned wasn't the only one. I could just see my father using his influence to take the case away from the FBI. "A raid last month netted us one of her warehouses, so she's gone underground. We did take out her son, Pierre Dubois, though ? or at least wounded and captured him. He was guarding a big coke shipment they were preparing for distribution." "You shot him?" I asked, shocked. "Of course not," she snorted. "It was a magical wound. You think you could walk if you got hit by a curse from a Freezer?" "Of course not," I replied. Freezers could partially paralyze a person in a heartbeat. "Neither could he," she remarked. "So he's in custody?" "Sure is." "So what's the meeting all about?" I pressed. When she was reluctant to answer, I guessed, "While they've got her son in custody and her organization off balance, they're going in for the kill, aren't they?" "Maybe," Helen allowed. This would be big news in the Crescent City. If Mama Dubois and her son went down, my father would be a local hero and a virtual shoo-in for any political office he wanted. Just then, the waiter came to collect our bowls and the conversation shifted. I had learned everything Helen would be willing to tell me, so there was no sense in pressing her further. As we ate our unforgettable servings of crabe mous amandine, we caught up on each other's lives. She told me about how her brother was doing well at Tulane, and I told her about my family ? but not too much. My father wouldn't have liked it if I had told Helen that my mother was drinking far too much and had fried her brain to the point at which she was living in La-La Land half of the time. I also neglected to mention that my two brothers were jealous little pricks. I didn't even tell her about Alexandra. I was afraid if I mentioned her, I might give away my plans to propose to her that evening. Mostly, I gave sketchy details and talked about my trials and tribulations at Harvard. "It sounds like you don't like it much up North," she commented just as the waiter delivered her meringue glacee swimming in chocolate. I shrugged as the waiter place fraises au kirsch in front of me with Gallic finesse. "it's all right," I said with a deadpan expression, adding, "For Yankees." We both laughed at that. "Thanks for lunch," she said with a grin as we left Antoine's. "That was the best meal I've had in a long time." "And healthy, too," I joked. We both laughed, knowing that every fine restaurant in the city served food rich enough to make a dietician pale. New Orleans must have more cholesterol per capita than any other city in the country. We natives seem to think if it isn't cooked in pure butter, it isn't worth eating. Impulsively, she kissed me lightly on the cheek. "And thanks for the advice. Maybe I will go into the private sector someday." With that, she waved and headed back to the office. I returned the wave and started back to our townhouse. Not everyone in a krewe participates in the parade. Actually, it's something of an honor to participate. Since I spent most of the year in Cambridge, I was not one of the participants, but my brothers were. I think it gave them satisfaction to know that they had achieved an honor I had not attained. Instead, I would accompany my mother and father and go directly to the ball. I was just as happy to do so, since changing into a tuxedo after the parade would have been logistically difficult ? especially since I carried Alex's engagement ring in the pocket of my tux coat and I certainly didn't want to lose it. The weather was luxuriously pleasant that evening as Jason, my father's chauffer, led me out to the waiting car. The air was warm, but the humidity was still low for early spring. Just a few weeks later, the temperature and the humidity would combine to make wearing something as formal as a tux extremely uncomfortable. I often wondered how my ancestors managed to dress so much more formally in the days before air conditioning. "You look very nice tonight, dear," my mother said, patting me on the knee as I took my place next to her in the back seat of the Lincoln Town Car. I could smell the alcohol on her breath and wondered ? not for the first time ? if she was drinking more now. It was the curse of many wealthy but ignored wives, if one were to judge by my mother and her friends. "So do you, mother," I replied. Actually, for a woman of fifty-five, she really did look very good ? almost regal in the gold gown and formally styled silver hair. She had gained a few pounds since I had left for college, but still managed to look slimmer than most of her contemporaries. However, given my father's indifference at her appearance, I imagined it was all for naught. "Do you have the ring?" my father asked me without preamble. I patted my pocket and he nodded. To him, this was not so much an engagement announcement as a proposed merger. If he had had his way, the engagement announcement would have appeared in the business section of the Times-Picayune: "Devereaux-Pierpont Merger Announced!" "Mister Devereaux," Jason called from behind the wheel, "there's quite a crowd on Peters and all through the west side of the Quarter. I recommend we go up to Rampart." Actually, we were nowhere near the crowd he was talking about. Jason was a Seer. When he concentrated, he could see things happening for almost half a mile away. It was a handy talent for a chauffer. Unfortunately, Seers couldn't focus on details, so their value as observers wasn't good enough to be admissible in court, or even for more mundane eavesdropping activities. Still, his instincts were good enough that my father grunted his approval and Jason pulled away from the curb. "We're so happy for you, Robert," my mother smiled, giving my knee another pat. "Alexandra is a lovely girl, and her mother and I are such good friends. You'll do well together." I nodded uncomfortably. I had visions of my mother and Alex's mother conspiring to mold us into their ideal couple. People of my parents' generation seldom had strong magical abilities; Webster and Kline's release of magic had its greatest affect on humans at puberty, enhancing latent talents that would serve for the rest of a person's life. But the key word was "latent." Even my parents' generation benefited from the release of magic, and my mother was something of a low-level Whisperer ? as was Alex's mother. That meant both Alex and I would have to remain on the alert when they began to pepper us with suggestions that had at least a subtle flavor of magic. The ball was already in progress when we arrived. A small but talented jazz orchestra was in full swing, and a few brave couples were on the dance floor, swaying to a hot number. Most of the guests preferred socializing to dancing, though. My brothers were laughing and talking with some of their contemporaries. They both glanced in our direction but made no indication that they were happy to see us ? or more specifically, happy to see me. My mother and father spotted a well-known local politician and made their way to where he was holding court, leaving me on my own. It took me only a minute to locate Alex, her bright red hair shining like a beacon as she laughed with a group of girls I recognized as her best friends, all of whom were classmates of hers at Tulane. I decided not to join them just yet. We'd have time enough together later. I decided instead to get myself a drink and see if any of my old friends and prep school classmates were anywhere to be seen. I made my way to the bar by myself. Along the way, I saw no one that I could call a friend. It seemed that none of my old friends had made it to the ball, and I found I didn't want to talk to any of my contemporaries who had managed to attend. It was funny, but maybe Harvard had changed me more than I realized. I found I had no real desire to hobnob with my fellow Southern aristocrats, half of whom were so wrapped up in their social circle that they didn't realize how much the world around them was changing. Maybe father had been right to send me to Harvard. It had certainly widened my perspective. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I never had been part of the social set. Oh sure, I did all the things a rich young man was supposed to do and was still doing them. The balls, pressing the flesh, and living the lush life were all part of my upbringing and I couldn't completely deny them. But on the other hand, I had always been very particular about my friends, selecting individuals such as myself who believed brains and talent were more important than money and contacts. Of course I ? and many of my wealthy friends ? had never truly had to test that hypothesis. The party actually looked a little better once I had a scotch in my hand. The ice-cooled soda water was soothing to my throat, and the scotch... well, let's just say that the Krewe of Pliny the Elder did not tolerate bad liquor. The orchestra had switched tempo and was playing a lush number which had most of the couples on the dance floor dancing very close to each other. I thought I should probably ask Alex to dance, but then I saw someone had already asked her. To my discomfort, they were dancing very close to each other as well. "Mr. Devereaux?" I turned away from my quiet people-watching to see a waiter attired in the formal livery of the krewe. The uniform fit him poorly, and I doubted if the caterer had bothered to do much to them in the way of alterations. It was a shame, really. Sizing was a magic talent common (and cheap) enough that the uniforms should have been a proper fit. "There's a call for you, sir," the waiter told me in a gentle Caribbean accent with undertones of French. He smiled, thick lips together in an ebony face. Looking back on it, though, it was his eyes that I should have noticed. They were the eyes of a predator and not those of a servitor. The oversight was to cost me dearly. I couldn't imagine who would be calling me. Alex was at the party, as well as my entire immediate family. No one else would know ? or care ? that I was at the party. "Do you know who's calling?" I asked. "I believe it is a Ms. Davis," he replied smoothly. Helen? What possible reason would there be for Helen to be calling me? Of course she knew I was at the party but... "Where did you say the call was?" "Follow me," the waiter replied with a small bow as he turned, not bothering to see if I would follow. I shrugged and fell into step with him. The phones were located in a small alcove just beyond the restroom where a caller could be assured of having some privacy. In keeping with the d?cor of the establishment, the phones were located on three French provincial desks, separated from each other. The phone on the center one was off the hook while callers were on the other two phones. Again, I should have noticed something wrong. The two other callers wore formal attire, but in retrospect, I should have noticed their outfits fit them as poorly as that of the waiter. Without thinking, I ignored the other two men and sat down, picking up the receiver. "Helen?" Strange, there was no one on the phone at all. "Helen?" That was as far as I got. The men on either side of me jumped up, one pinning my arms to my side while the other shoved a rag over my nose and mouth. "Whaa...?" was all I managed as darkness overtook me at once. I woke up in total darkness. I was lying on a bed ? that much I could tell from the softness and the cool feel of the sheets. It was easy to feel the sheets, because I wasn't wearing a single stitch of clothing. There was no sound and no light, so I overcame my first impulse to stand since being both naked and sightless would not do me any good. Even in my chloroform-drugged brain, I had determined that my best course of action lay in waiting until I had been able to learn something of my surroundings. However, I wasn't to be given the opportunity to play possum. "We know you awake, boy," a woman's sultry voice called out calmly from the darkness. She had a soft French accent and a cadence of the islands ? just like the waiter who had lured me from the ball. I'd like to say that I was as unruffled as James Bond, but that would be a lie. In fact, I was scared shitless. Someone had kidnapped me, taken all of my clothing, and left me in stygian darkness. I was no fool. My father was both rich and powerful. I knew he had made many enemies in his tenure at the FBM. Either some of them had me in their clutches or I had been kidnapped for ransom. I actually hoped it was the latter of the two. Kidnappers would probably let me go after a ransom was paid. My father's enemies on the other hand... "Do you know why you're here?" the woman's voice asked. "N...No," I stammered. Dim light appeared from nowhere in particular and I could see an attractive black woman in a long, flowing orange dress. She looked to be perhaps forty, but a very well preserved forty I had to admit. Her skin was very dark and her hair was short and curled closely along the side of her narrow face. "I'm Marie Dubois," she said, moving toward me in a sultry gait. "But some folks call me Mama Juno." I would have gotten up from the bed and tried to greet her with something resembling dignity ? or as much dignity as a naked man can muster ? but for some reason, I couldn't get up from the bed. I could move my arms and legs, but I couldn't rise from the bed. It was as if my torso had been glued to the bed. I was forced to lie there unmoving as she sat beside me, the cotton of her skirt sliding over the smooth sheets. "Your father has my son, Pierre," she told me. Her voice was even, but there was hatred in her eyes when she mentioned my father. "He hurt him ? hurt him bad. Right now, he can't even walk." "Your son was paralyzed by a Freezer," I told her, trying to keep my voice calm. "He'll be all right. The spell will wear off." "You don't know that!" she snorted. "You just know what you be told. My boy, he hurt bad. The Freezer, he no good. He use too much power. He may never be whole again." I had no reason to doubt her. Unfortunately, magic was still pretty much new to the world and could get out of control in a tense situation. Freezers had been known to accidentally stop a person's heart when all they were trying to do was stop them from running. Helen hadn't told me the details, but I suspected he had tried to resist before his capture. If he had resisted, the Freezer might have overdone it. It was very possible that he might never walk again. "I... I hope he'll be all right," I offered, praying that he would. "Oh he walk again," she said grimly. "I sure about that, yes... He gonna walk into the court on his own, but down here..." She reached out with long black fingers and caressed my balls. "Down here maybe he don't work no more. He my only boy, too." "I'm sorry," I managed, really meaning it on many levels. To my surprise, she shrugged, looking away. "Well, maybe there some hope. Mama know things you white boys don't know. We be able to fix him up fine." Then she turned her attention back to me. "But still your daddy ? he hurt my boy. Now, you gonna pay the price for what your daddy do." I held my breath. I fully expected her to pull a sharp blade from somewhere inside her orange gown and slice off my manhood as I watched in horror. She was full of surprises, though, rising from my bedside and releasing the clasps that held the dress over her shoulders. As the dress fell to the floor, I was mesmerized by her body. The top of her black breasts seemed almost to shine in the light that followed her. Her nipples were erect and perfectly sized for her magnificent breasts, which were firm with no hint of sagging ? the breasts of a twenty year old. As for the rest of her, she was a perfect picture of womanhood ? small waist, rounded hips, and long, slim legs. As precarious as my situation was, I couldn't stop myself from becoming uncomfortably erect in her presence. She smiled at my discomfort, her long fingers gently caressing my penis. I took an act of sheer will to keep from going off right then. "You like what you see?' she asked, not waiting for an answer. When she kissed the tip of my penis, I was certain that she was magically keeping me from orgasming since the pressure within me was too intense to hold back without magical help. There was no romance in what came next, but I'd be lying if I said it wasn't pleasurable. She mounted me. It was as simple as that. And since it was hardly consensual, it must be noted that what she did to me can only be called rape. I had enjoyed sex many times in my young life, but I had never felt anything like I felt that night. When I was finally allowed to come, I nearly passed out. I flatter myself in thinking that Mama Juno, too, came, but the loud moan I exhaled was too loud to hear any sounds she might have made. It was over as quickly as it began. She pulled away from me, leaving me limp all over. "Rest now, lover," she whispered. And in response to her command, I felt all consciousness slipping away... "Can you hear me?" The woman's voice was familiar. At first my confused mind thought it was Mama Juno, but the voice calling to me was higher and younger with no trace of a Southern accent. I tried to open my eyes, but I felt as if lead weights had been attached to my eyelids. "Don't try to open your eyes just yet," the woman cautioned. "You've been spelled into a trance. I need to bring you out of it slowly. Just try to nod your head if you understand." With effort, I managed to do so. "Good. Now just lie still." I felt her touching the side of my face, then stroking my arms. At last, she withdrew her hands and ordered, "Now concentrate on the sound of my voice. I want you to open your eyes at the count of three. Are you ready?" I managed to nod. "One...Two...Three!" My eyes literally shot open, and I was suddenly staring into the worried face of Sarah Carmichael. She sighed in relief. "You gave us quite a scare, Robert." "Am...I...in...hos...hos..." I managed to croak out. "The hospital? Not exactly. You're in the clinic at the FBM. You're going to be all right." At that moment, my father rushed in, followed closely by Uncle Avery. "My God, Robert, are you all right?" "He shouldn't talk right now," Sarah cautioned, tucking a sheet over my chest. "Let him rest for a while first." My father squeezed my hand, a serious look of concern on his face. "Yes, you rest, Robert. Your mother is in my office now. I'll tell her you're doing better." When he and Uncle Avery were gone, Sarah continued to check me out in the manner of a health professional. I wondered if among her many talents, she was also an RN. When she finished checking the monitors, she turned back to me. "We found you on the steps of the building this morning," she explained. "You were out cold and naked." I blushed a little at that. I must have presented a bizarre image even in a town where bizarre can be commonplace. "I've checked you over. I can't find anything physically wrong with you, so you should be fine." Maybe, but the way she said it wasn't terribly reassuring. The operative word was "physically." Strictly speaking, I could be a psychological or magical nightmare and still be "physically" fine. Mama Juno was rumored to be one of the most adept magical practitioners in the parish, and everyone knew that sexually transmitted spells were the most powerful ? and often the ugliest. Sarah knew it, too. I could see it in her expression. Since I doubted if Mama Juno had bothered to have me cleaned up before unceremoniously dumping me on the front steps of the FBM, Sarah must have suspected something sexual had transpired. "Just get some rest," she advised me. "We'll talk more when you're rested." I dozed off and on for the better part of the day. That wasn't natural, and I suspected that Sarah had prescribed a light sedative spell for me. At least it would probably not produce the grogginess a chemical sedative would have produced. By nightfall, I was wide-awake ? just in time for my mother and two brothers to visit me. "Oh Robert!" my mother wailed, grabbing my arm as she bent over to kiss me. "We were so worried about you." I wasn't sure who she meant by "we". Sure, she was worried, and so was my father, I assumed, but Paul and Lance stood back looking more concerned that I might actually recover. It was a good thing I wasn't on oxygen because either of my brothers would have been more than happy to stand on the oxygen tube. "I'm fine, mother," I told her, shooting a smug glance at my brothers. Actually, I was feeling pretty good. Sure, I was worried about what Mama Juno might have done to me, but nothing had happened yet as far as I could tell. Sarah's suspected spell had done wonders for me it seemed. Mother left after a few minutes of forgettable chatter, my two brothers sullenly in tow. After they were gone, I realized neither of my brothers had bothered to say a word to me. Of course, I also realized I was okay with that. I had one other visitor that evening. Fortunately, I had enough warning that she was coming that I had a chance to shave and run a comb through my hair. I didn't seem to need a shave, so I assumed Sarah had gotten one of the attendants to shave me while I was asleep. There was nothing I could do about the oversized FBM sweats I had been given, so Alex would just have to see me not at my fashionable best. "Robert," she crooned, falling into my arms as I rose to greet her. "Are you all right?" "It appears as if I am," I allowed, hugging her closely. "I didn't even get a chance to talk to you last night. I had something very important to ask you." She pushed back just a little, looking into my eyes. The light dawned at once in her eyes. She obviously didn't want to hear anything like a proposal just then. "Maybe we'd better wait until you're feeling a little better before we discuss...that." She was right. A patient room in the FBM clinic wasn't the sort of place to propose to a woman like Alex. "All right," I agreed. "We can talk about it when I'm out of here." "When are they going to let you go?" she asked, releasing me and changing the subject at the same moment. "Tomorrow, I would imagine," I replied. "They want to run a few more tests on me and debrief me in the morning. I should be home in time for lunch." "What did that awful woman do to you?" she asked, alerting me to the fact that my kidnapping by Mama Juno must have been common knowledge already. I hoped that no one ? particularly Alex ? had been told that I had obviously had sex during my abduction. "Just held me for a few hours," I lied. It wasn't a good idea to tell her what had really happened. As I've mentioned before, Alex and I had been sexually active for some time over school vacations and summer breaks. She knew spells could be sexually transmitted, too. Until I had a clean bill of health from Sarah and her FBM staff, it was best not to mention my sexual encounter with Mama Juno. Come to think of it, it would be best if Alex was never told about that, as long as Sarah could confirm that nothing transmittable had entered my system. "That's all?" she asked ? a little suspiciously, I thought. I really couldn't blame her, though. "I think she just wanted to prove to my father that she could do it," I said glibly. I'm sure that was actually part of it, so it wasn't really a lie. Half truths always spin better than lies. We then talked for a while about inconsequential things ? her school and mine, mutual friends, and how much we were looking forward to being able to spend more time together. The possibility of marriage wasn't mentioned, but we both knew it would be happening ? probably some time late in the summer. That would give us both time to get home from our respective schools. Finally, the stress of the day got to me. Alex gave me a warm kiss and said goodnight. Minutes later, I was back in bed asleep, still in my sweats. The next morning, I felt like my old self again. I awoke, refreshed and hungry. Of course psychologically, I was still a little off. After all, I had been raped when you get right down to it. I began to understand just a little how a woman felt when she was subjected to nonconsensual sex. In some ways, I may have felt even worse than a woman would. I don't mean that insensitively. I knew that women had the additional burden of worrying if a rapist had impregnated them, but on the other hand, most women I knew grew up with the knowledge that it could happen to them. I don't think I ever worried as a man about being raped by a woman, and I doubt if there is a man alive who ever anticipates it could happen to him. It made me feel powerless in a way I had never imagined before. My father had brought me some fresh clothes from home in anticipation of my release. It felt good to dress in something besides the utilitarian sweats. Once in a white polo shirt and gray slacks, I felt my self-confidence returning somewhat. Looking at myself in the mirror, my kidnapping and sexual assault seemed like something from a bad dream. Sarah ushered me into a meeting room and my self-confidence waned again. A buffet of fruit, yogurt, beignets and other assorted pastries greeted us, and the amount of food made me realize this was going to be a large meeting. It seemed that my embarrassment was going to be shared with a dozen or more people. I didn't want a group of strangers viewing me as some sort of sexual victim. As the others filtered in, I began to feel a little better. Those who I knew ? Helen, Uncle Avery, and a couple of others ? all expressed relief that I was all right and assured me that Mama Juno and her gang would soon be behind bars. They were closer to me than most of my own family, I realized. "Sit up here by me," my father urged. I sat at his right hand while Uncle Avery sat across from me at his left. The rest of the dozen or so FBM employees took seats at the large conference table. I knew all of them at least by appearance and most of them by name. I relaxed a little, realizing that each of the people at the table were loyal to my father and by implication on my side. "You all know why we're here," my father began. "You've had a chance to read the brief. Let's go through what we know now and come up with a strategy regarding this Mama Juno." Uncle Avery took over, handing out a printed briefing and explaining the bare facts of the case as a review. The barest fact was the condition in which I had been delivered to the FBM offices ? naked with a note taped to my chest. The note was news to me. No one had mentioned any note. A copy of it was attached to the report. It said simply: Por Nathan. "Poor Nathan?" I asked, squinting to see the printing on the note in the photo they took of me when I was found. "P-o-r," Uncle Avery corrected me. Of course; it was French. It mean "for" in English "So who is Nathan?" My father gave me an ugly look, as if I was not supposed to be the one asking the questions. Still, he answered, "Nathan is Mama Juno's son. We have him in custody." I nodded. I didn't mention that Helen had already told me that much. I simply hadn't been told his name. "But if she wanted to trade me for her son, why did she release me? Did you release him in exchange for me?" It was Sarah's turn to answer. "Robert, Nathan may never walk again. Even if he does, a Freezer probably destroyed his sex life. She didn't want to trade for her son. This is Old Testament stuff ? an eye for an eye. She cursed you." My first thought was that she had done the same thing to me the Freezer had done to her son. But no, I had awakened with hard wood that morning. Everything down south seemed to be working just fine. Maybe Sarah was wrong. "But I feel fine." "The curse is dormant," she explained, "but it's there. Two Detectors checked you out while you were asleep. There's a curse on you like no other curse we've ever seen." That didn't sound good at all. "Go ahead," my father said when Sarah looked at him questioningly. "He's cleared on my authority." Sarah nodded. "Robert, we're going to tell you something most people don't know..." She went on to explain that there was far more to magic than most people realized. Some of it I knew (or at least suspected) from things my father had told me over the years or from courses I had taken in magic. But some of it smacked of rumors I remembered from campfire stories of my childhood, and some of it was completely new to me ? and all of it was frightening. "We are tasked with keeping a lot of this information secret," Sarah explained. "If the general public had any idea how powerful some of the magic is out there, they'd be very disturbed." And they'd probably throw a goodly number of the current politicians out on their collective ears for not doing more to control magic, I thought. Magic might be more commonplace now, but we still weren't that far psychologically from wanting to burn "witches" at the stake. In a society where most magical talents were weak at best, strong talents were to be feared. "So you're telling me," I began, "that the curse might be anything ? impotency, turn me into a werewolf..." Sarah laughed nervously. "Impotency ? maybe. But as for becoming a werewolf, that's doubtful. Transformation curses are limited to transforming into other humans." For now, I thought, but I didn't speak. "And transformation curses are rare. They're very difficult to do. They require a significant understanding of anatomy." "Yes," Helen agreed, "but even those are more common than they used to be. Some spells have been standardized. And there's that radical feminist group, the Women's Liberation Army." "Aren't they the ones who made men think they were women a couple of years ago?" I asked. "That's right," Sarah replied slowly. I had a hunch she wasn't telling the whole truth, though. The supermarket rags claimed the WLA actually turned a few men into women until they were caught and stopped by the FBM. No, the FBM said. Men were only made to think they had been turned into women. I had an uncomfortable feeling the rags were right. My father shot a disapproving look at Helen. I had a hunch she had not helped her career by mentioning the WLA. She wisely said nothing more about them. "I'd like to keep you on a curse watch, Robert," Sarah proposed. "What does that mean?" I asked warily. I suspected I knew. If Sarah had her way, I'd be locked away "safely" until they were sure the curse was stale. "We'd assign a guard to you," my father clarified. "You'd have to stay at the townhouse." I was pretty sure he meant I would have to stay inside the townhouse ? not just "at" it. "But I'm due to go back to Harvard in a few days," I reminded him. "I'll make certain you're allowed to graduate on time," he assured me. "What if I say no?" Everyone in the room looked uncomfortably away from me except my father. He stared directly into my eyes, making me regret my audacity. "No is not an option," he replied softly. So began my virtual captivity. I didn't consider it as such at first; I thought only that my father was determined to be over-protective. It didn't take me long, though to discover the truth. Oh, no one spilled the beans. It was just that over the next few days, a word here or there would slip from one of my rotating guards or from one of the Farseers who came to project my Harvard lectures for me. Slowly, I learned the real truth for my seclusion. It was like this... Nathan Dubois was due to come to trial in the Magic Courts in a few days. Magic, like taxes, rated its own set of courts with its own judges. Judges in Magic Court were powerful magical practitioners in their own rights, often blessed with the rare ability to perform multiple magic functions well. Of course, many people had a smattering of multiple talents. In a quiet room with just one other person, I could sometimes make out a word or two of their thoughts. But most people ? like me ? had only one truly marketable talent, such as my own telekinesis, and a host of weaker, unreliable powers. Magic Courts were closed courts. Verdicts were announced, but the government didn't want public testimony from the proceedings since it might reveal information which could be used by others to do magical mischief. Also, the closed courts kept the general public from realizing just how vulnerable everyone was to malicious magic ? and exactly how widespread it was. I expected that I would be sequestered until after Nathan Dubois' trial. I had picked that up from my guards. What I had not expected was how serious the charges were against him. "Kidnapping?" I repeated. Helen nodded. She had come to visit me, and we were enjoying a cup of morning coffee together in the ornate living room of father's townhouse. "Don't be so surprised," she said. "After all, his mother kidnapped you. Why shouldn't he be capable of kidnapping, too?" I nodded. It made sense. "And that's just the start of it," she continued. "He's also facing extortion, smuggling, and dangerous practice charges ? in addition to the primary charges of possessing cocaine with intent to sell." "What are dangerous practices?" I asked. Helen looked a little uncomfortable. "Dangerous practices are why this is in Magic Court. In Nathan's case, he practices Voodoo." "Voodoo?" I laughed. "You're joking." Her eyes got wide and a serious expression clouded her face. "I never joke about Voodoo. It's not safe." My smile faded. "You really believe in that stuff?" "Robert, Voodoo has always been powerful ? even before magic was released," she explained. "Forget about everything you've heard about it. No offense, but you're white. Not many white folks really know anything about Voodoo." Actually, I was a little offended. Like most natives of the Crescent City, I thought I knew a fair amount about it. I wasn't one of those ignorant Yankees that thought it was all about love potions and zombies. Oh, that was part of Voodoo, but I understood its dark origins in the worship of primitive African gods. I knew something of its rituals and the concept of creating gris-gris through those arcane rites. She read the expression on my face. "I