Mama Orane stood in the middle of the room and hung her head so that she stared at the floor. Her assistant picked up a small drum from the table and began tapping out a steady beat as she murmured in what sounded like French. Although English was the island’s main language, Haitian refugees had been coming to it both before and after the Decline.
The locals joined in with the girl, and Mama Orane began to shake. At first, she could have simply been dancing to the beat, but as her movements grew increasingly erratic, it was obvious she was having—or faking—some kind of fit. Despite all she’d witnessed in the past, Mae still entered these situations with a healthy dose of skepticism. She knew Justin, who was barely blinking, did too.
Mama Orane shook for several more moments and suddenly froze.
Everyone in the room fell silent, and there was a collective intake of breath. Slowly, she lifted her head, her dark eyes looking around the room. Then, a sly smile crept across her face. “Bonsoir, mes petits.”
The tension broke as the locals cheered. “Josephine! It’s Josephine!”
Mama Orane, who’d entered in a slow and stately way, suddenly sauntered forward, swaying her hips with the sass of a girl half her age. She circled the room, still with that sly smile, taking the measure of her guests as her assistant trailed a respectful distance behind. At last, Mama Orane stopped in front of one of the EA men. Her expression went from sassy to outright flirtatious, and she completely caught him offguard when she sat down in his lap, much to the delight of the onlookers.
She spoke in French, but her hovering assistant quickly translated. “Why are you so sad, sweetie? You still miss her?” Mama Orane gently stroked his face. “Don’t be sad. She’s not the one for you.”
Amazingly, the man’s amused expression began to crumple. “No, she is.”
The assistant performed two-way translation, and Mama Orane shook her head. “No. You were better off when she left. Just you wait—someone else will come along.”
“Really?” he asked, a flicker of hope in his eyes.
“Really. And until then, I’ll be happy to keep you company.” She darted in with a quick kiss on his cheek that actually made him blush, and then she moved on with a wink.
“Well?” Mae whispered to Justin, who looked unimpressed.
“Easy to guess at a recent separation,” he responded quietly. “You can tell from his finger he used to wear a wedding ring. And he tipped her off early that he was the rejected party.”
Mama Orane—or Josephine—continued visiting with other members of the audience, all men. She flirted shamelessly and dispensed various tidbits of romantic advice and predictions. Justin didn’t break down any more of them for her, but Mae could tell from his face that he wasn’t buying in yet.
As it turned out, Mama Orane made him her last visit. She looked down upon him from her demure height, hands on her hips, as she tsked. “I won’t even bother with you, love. Not many women can catch you.”
He smiled back gallantly. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
She laughed in delight and patted his shoulder before returning to her central position. Her assistant took up the drum again, and there was another bout of shaking and chanting. When she came out of this spell and looked up, she spoke in English, in a much flatter tone than Josephine had: “Where’s my rum?”
Those on the floor were overjoyed. “Reynard!”
Mama Orane’s Reynard guise moved with a stride that was simply laidback, rather than attempting any sex appeal. He or she—Mae wasn’t entirely sure which was accurate—told fortunes on a variety of topics. One of Reynard’s targets included the Gemman woman who’d offered Justin the wine.
“What’s your name?”
”Elspeth,” she said meekly.
“You can’t stay away, you know. You’ve eventually gotta go back home.”
Elspeth stuck her chin out defiantly and tried to stare down the small woman standing before her. “I’m not! I’m done with them. No one can make me go.”
“No,” agreed Mama-Orane-as-Reynard. “Only you can. You going to keep breaking your parents’ hearts?”
Elspeth’s lip quivered, and she looked away, refusing to make eye contact. Mama Orane left it at that and returned to the room’s center, where another round of chanting and drumming began.
“What was that one?” Mae asked, her voice covered by the din. Justin was silent as he studied the red-haired group. “Elspeth,” he
said after several moments. “She’s a Scottish castal.” He used the slang term for “patrician” without thought. “One of the others was named Roisin. Irish. She’s fraternizing outside her caste. That’s what she’s dreading going home to.”
“They could be from a meta-caste,” Mae reminded him. “One with lots of Celtic varieties.”
“The only two out there select for recessive colored eyes. Hers are brown, which the Caledonians allow.” Justin shook his head. “She’s good. Really good.”
Mama Orane’s third transformation was into a man the others called El Diable.
“The Devil,” said Justin. “Subtle.”
This guise elicited none of the joy in the onlookers that Josephine and Reynard had. A hush fell over the room, as those gathered sat tensely. Mama Orane’s face was cold and devoid of emotion as she surveyed the room. Then astonishingly, she strode straight toward Mae and Justin. The woman herself posed no physical threat, but the look in her eyes made Mae’s implant ramp up. There was something so eerie in that gaze, something inhuman that Mae couldn’t quite put her finger on.
But even that was less shocking than what happened next. Mama Orane leaned forward so that she was at their eye level. When she spoke as El Diable, it was barely a whisper, like a snake’s voice.
“Electi . . .”
CHAPTER 2
Something Else to Worry About
Justin’s first reaction was panic. Then indignation.
You told me it would work! You told me no one would be able to sense me if I made that charm!
Magnus, one of the two unseen ravens that lived inside Justin’s mind, was equally indignant. It did work.
His counterpart, Horatio, clarified: As usual, you assume this is about you. You’re not the one El Diable is talking to.
A quick assessment showed Justin that the raven was correct. Mama Orane—or whoever the hell she was now—wasn’t looking at him. That creepy gaze was fixed on Mae. Even more incredibly, Mama Orane then reached out and cupped Mae’s cheek. Justin felt her go rigid beside him, and he instinctively reached over and squeezed her hand tightly, as both comfort and a means of restraint. Despite a history of casual liasons, she did not react well to unsolicited contact, especially from a woman who looked like she feasted on souls. Justin wouldn’t have put it past Mae to pull out her gun.
“Cave bellum electi,” whispered Mama Orane. Her assistant immediately appeared beside her, ready to translate.
“Beware the—”
“I know what it means,” Justin interrupted. The assistant shot him a glare but said nothing as she waited for her mistress to continue.
Mama Orane was still touching Mae, who didn’t even seem to be breathing as she locked eyes with the other woman. “Cave bellum electi,” she repeated. “Inveni tuum deum.”
Mama Orane and her assistant turned away, off to deliver cryptic wisdom to someone else. Beside Justin, Mae was breathing again, but they were rapid, shallow breaths. She was still wound up, and her eyes never left Mama Orane as the medium worked the rest of the crowd. As El Diable, she continued issuing ominous messages in Latin that her assistant translated to their bewildered recipients. Justin gave Mae’s hand one last squeeze and then released it, trusting she’d stay put and not attack anyone.