Chapter 8: Blood and Voodoo
The vampire mutants were still out there.
Two days after the nightclub confrontation, the disappearances had resumed. This time the victims were found in the Tremé district—three people drained of blood but left alive, their memories fuzzy about what had happened to them. NOPD was overwhelmed, and he was rapidly running out of his depth.
Marissa had given him a business card the morning after their interview—not hers, but someone else's. Cream-colored cardstock with elegant script that read: "Dr. Jericho Drumm, Spiritual Consultant."
"He helps us with... unusual cases," she'd explained. "Things that don't fit in the normal investigative framework."
"Voodoo priest?"
"Among other things. If those creatures are supernatural, he'll know how to track them."
The address led him deep into the bayou, twenty minutes outside the city limits where modern New Orleans gave way to Louisiana's wilder nature. Spanish moss draped from ancient cypress trees created a green tunnel over the narrow road, and the air grew thick with humidity and something else—a heaviness that made his danger sense hum constantly.
The house squatted on stilts above dark water, a traditional Creole cottage that had clearly been modified over the years with additions that didn't quite match the original architecture. Wind chimes made of bones and shells hung from the porch eaves, creating haunting melodies in the bayou breeze.
He'd barely set foot on the wooden walkway when the front door opened.
"I've been expecting you, wrong-soul-in-right-body."
The man in the doorway was tall and lean, with skin the color of mahogany and eyes that seemed to see too much. Dr. Jericho Drumm wore simple clothes—white linen shirt, dark pants—but carried himself with an authority that had nothing to do with physical presence and everything to do with power that operated on different rules than the mundane world.
"I'm sorry, what did you call me?"
"Come inside. We have much to discuss."
Brother Voodoo's home felt like stepping into a different century. Herbs hung in bundles from the rafters, filling the air with scents of sage, sweetgrass, and things he couldn't identify. Candles provided most of the lighting, their flames casting dancing shadows on walls covered with masks, ritual implements, and symbols from a dozen different spiritual traditions.
"Tea?" Jericho asked, already moving toward a pot that steamed on an antique wood-burning stove.
"How did you know I was coming?"
"The Loa whisper many things to those who know how to listen." Jericho poured two cups of something that smelled like hibiscus and mystery. "They've been quite chatty about you lately."
"About me specifically?"
"About the displaced soul wearing Remy LeBeau's face. About the touch of the Void that clings to you like perfume." Jericho settled into a chair that creaked with age, studying him with unsettling intensity. "The question is: what are you going to do about it?"
The bottom dropped out of his world.
He knows. He knows everything.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Peace, child." Jericho's voice carried a calming authority that had nothing to do with supernatural charm and everything to do with genuine compassion. "You think you're the first soul to find itself in the wrong place, wearing the wrong face? The universe is vast and strange, full of doors that open in unexpected directions."
"So you believe me? Just like that?"
"I can see the Void energy that surrounds you, taste it in the air when you speak. You are touched by the space between life and death, reality and unreality." Jericho sipped his tea thoughtfully. "But you are not consumed by it. Not lost to it. That suggests strength, or perhaps purpose."
Relief flooded through him so intensely it made his hands shake. For the first time since waking up in Remy's body, someone knew the truth and wasn't afraid of it.
"What happened to the real Remy?"
"That's not the right question." Jericho leaned forward, his eyes reflecting candlelight like dark water. "The right question is: why did the Void choose you? What is it you're meant to do in this world that the original soul could not?"
"I don't know."
"Then perhaps it's time to start finding out." Jericho stood, moving toward a cabinet filled with ritual implements. "But first, we deal with your immediate problem. The blood-drinkers have been busy again."
"You know about them?"
"I know many things. Including the fact that they're not evil, merely desperate." Jericho selected several items from the cabinet—a carved wooden bowl, what looked like ancient coins, and a vial of dark liquid. "They're mutants, as you suspected. Their mutation requires fresh blood to survive, but they're not killers. They take only what they need, leave their donors alive and unharmed."
"Then why are people ending up comatose?"
"Because someone else is using them. Controlling them." Jericho began arranging his ritual materials on a small table. "Someone who wants you specifically to find them."
"Me? Why?"
"Because you're interesting, wrong-soul. And there are forces in this world that collect interesting things."
The ritual was unlike anything he'd seen in movies or read in books. Jericho worked with efficient precision, mixing the dark liquid with what looked like graveyard dirt while chanting in languages that predated European colonization. The wooden bowl began to smoke, then glow with a soft blue light that made his skin tingle.
"Blood calls to blood," Jericho murmured, dropping one of the ancient coins into the mixture. "Show us their nest, their sanctuary, their home."
The smoke swirled upward, forming shapes that resolved into a clear image: an abandoned warehouse in the Ninth Ward, surrounded by overgrown lots and the kind of urban decay that followed in Hurricane Katrina's wake. Even through the mystical vision, he could sense the desperation that clung to the place.
"They're hiding," he realized. "Trying to survive in a world that would kill them if it knew what they were."
"Now you begin to understand." Jericho extinguished the ritual with a gesture, the smoke dissipating instantly. "The question is: will you help them, or will you judge them?"
The warehouse squatted in a section of the Ninth Ward that hadn't fully recovered from the hurricane. Broken windows, rust stains, and graffiti tags marked it as territory that respectable citizens avoided after dark. But his enhanced senses picked up signs of habitation—the faint scents of cooking food and human occupation, the subtle warmth of bodies sheltering inside.
"They're not alone," Jericho observed quietly. "I sense at least a dozen souls within."
They approached cautiously, not wanting to trigger defensive responses from people who had every reason to be paranoid about outsiders. The main entrance had been welded shut, but a side door showed signs of recent use.
Inside, the warehouse had been transformed into something between a commune and a fortress. Sleeping areas sectioned off with hanging sheets, a communal kitchen built around camping equipment, improvised furniture constructed from salvaged materials. It wasn't comfortable, but it was home.
The vampire mutants were there—all three from the nightclub, plus nine others ranging in age from teenagers to elderly. They moved with that same inhuman grace, but in their own space they seemed less predatory and more... tired.
"We know you're here," called a voice from the shadows. The platinum-haired woman stepped into view, no longer dressed for hunting but wearing simple jeans and a faded t-shirt. "Question is what you want."
"To understand," Jericho said simply. "To learn why you're being used."
"Used?" The dark-haired man from the nightclub emerged from behind a partition, moving protectively toward what was clearly the group's leader. "We're not being used by anyone."
"Then explain the hospital victims," the protagonist said. "People left comatose instead of just weakened."
A third voice answered—elderly, male, carrying the authority of someone who'd lived through decades of persecution:
"We don't leave anyone comatose. We're careful, precise. Take only what we need, give pleasure in return through our secretions." An old man stepped forward, leaning heavily on a walking stick. "We're not monsters."
"Then someone's feeding for you. Or making you feed differently."
"Impossible. We would know if—"
The old man's words cut off as his eyes went glassy. Around the warehouse, the other vampire mutants began moving with jerky, unnatural motions, like marionettes controlled by an inexperienced puppeteer.
"Well, well. What have we here?"
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, echoing off the warehouse walls with mechanical precision. Through the main entrance, a figure strode into view—tall, pale, wearing the kind of body armor that suggested military training and serious firepower.
"Scalphunter," Jericho identified quietly. "Marauder. Sinister's attack dog."
Sinister. The name hit him like ice water, confirming fears he'd been trying to ignore since Bella Donna mentioned the mysterious client with red-on-black eyes.
"Subject 013," Scalphunter called cheerfully, his weapon trained on the controlled vampire mutants. "You've been a busy boy. Stealing artifacts, disrupting carefully laid plans, generally making a nuisance of yourself."
"What do you want?"
"What I want is irrelevant. What Sinister wants is you. Alive, preferably, but he didn't specify condition." Scalphunter's grin was all teeth and bad intentions. "These blood-drinkers have been excellent bait. Amazing how predictable heroes can be."
The fight erupted without warning.
Scalphunter's weapon discharged some kind of energy pulse that made his kinetic charging sputter and fail. The controlled vampire mutants attacked with coordinated precision, their natural abilities enhanced by whatever technology was dominating their minds.
He threw uncharged cards in desperation, using enhanced agility to stay ahead of attacks that came from multiple directions. But without his primary power, he was losing ground rapidly.
"Help them!" Jericho shouted, weaving between attackers while chanting in a language that made reality bend. "Break the control! They're not your enemies!"
Panic flooded his system as claws raked across his back. In that moment of absolute desperation, he reached for power he barely understood—not kinetic energy, but something deeper, stranger, touched with the void between worlds.
A playing card in his hand began to unfold.
This time it didn't become a barrier—it became a staff. Three feet of solid energy that felt real as steel, humming with power that resonated in his bones. The construct weapon lasted longer than the shield had, remaining solid for fifteen full seconds.
He used every moment.
The staff cracked against Scalphunter's armor hard enough to send the Marauder stumbling. A second strike disrupted whatever control device he'd been using, freeing the vampire mutants from external domination. They turned on their controller with unified fury, forcing Scalphunter to retreat toward the exit.
"This isn't over, Subject 013!" the Marauder called as he disappeared into the night. "Sinister knows about your evolution! He'll want to study the new developments!"
The warehouse fell silent except for the sound of breathing and the faint hum of mystical energy gradually dissipating. He stood amid the aftermath, staring at his hands where the construct staff had been moments before.
"You protected us," the platinum-haired woman said quietly. "Why?"
"Because you're people," he said, surprised by how readily the answer came. "People just trying to survive in a world that fears them."
The elderly leader approached slowly, his eyes clear now that the external control was broken.
"We owe you a debt. If there's anything we can do—"
"Stay safe. Find somewhere better to hide. Sinister will try this again."
"What about you? He's clearly targeting you specifically."
"That's my problem to solve."
Jericho placed a hand on his shoulder as they walked back toward the bayou. "You did well, wrong-soul. You chose to protect the strange and outcast instead of judging them. That is the path the Void chose you to walk."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you're not trying to be Remy LeBeau anymore. You're becoming something new—neither the soul you were nor the body you wear, but something uniquely yours." Jericho smiled in the darkness. "The Loa approve. They whisper that this is only the beginning."
Dawn found him back in his French Quarter apartment, staring at his hands where the construct staff still tingled in muscle memory. The power felt natural now, like an extension of his own will rather than some foreign force he was borrowing.
I'm changing, he realized. With every power use, every crisis, every choice to help instead of hide, I'm becoming something new.
Outside his window, New Orleans awakened to another day of beauty and danger intertwined. Somewhere in the city, vampire mutants were finding safer shelter. Somewhere else, Sinister was planning his next move in a game that spanned dimensions.
And in his apartment, a man who was neither fully human nor entirely other practiced unfolding playing cards into weapons of light, learning to swim in waters that were far deeper and stranger than he'd ever imagined.
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