Third Strike of Midnight by Jane Hinchey

Author:Jane Hinchey [Jane Hinchey]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Baywolf Press
Published: 2021-09-15T00:00:00+00:00

“Welcome, welcome.” A slim woman dressed all in white stood upon a box, beckoning the crowd milling about to come closer. “My name is Valérie Langlois, and I’ll be leading the ceremony tonight, but first, let me tell you about voodoo and our culture.”

“Our culture?” Jax whispered out of the corner of his mouth. “She’s whiter than me. How can voodoo be her culture? Isn’t voodoo African?”

“Ah,” Valérie pointed directly at Jax. “A nonbeliever.”

“Not necessarily,” Jax shot back, undeterred at being singled out. “Just curious. Please, do continue. I’m all ears.”

She smiled, a sweet smile dripping with honey and good intentions, before inclining her head slightly.

“The feast of St John the Baptist is celebrated by Catholics. It coincides with the summer solstice, creating one of the holiest days for the voodoo faith. Voodoo is a religion born from the West Coast of Africa that followed the slave trade to Haiti and New Orleans.” She paused to look at Jax, who gave a hand gesture for her to continue.

“We subscribe to a supreme God, the Bon Dieu, and similar to Catholicism and the Catholic Saints, the Iwa spirits are lauded for their life’s work and devotion to the cause.

“The Iwa spirits continue to communicate with the living through ceremonies, dreams, and possession trances where they actually borrow a person’s body temporarily and talk through it, do healings, and eat and dance, manifesting the characters of that person.”

Is that what had happened to Aunt Tilly? Was Marie Laveau an Iwa spirit who’d borrowed Aunt Tilly’s body? But Valérie said the Iwa spirits’ possessions were temporary. Marie was looking for something more permanent, and tonight, being such a powerful night for voodoo magic, was the perfect night to make it happen. Panic squeezed my heart, sweat trickled down my back, and it was hard to breathe.

“Tonight, we are conducting a voodoo baptismal, a centuries-old Haitian ritual also known as a Headwashing Ceremony, and you, the uninitiated, are invited. Join us on Magnolia Bridge at seven. Don’t forget to bring an offering, blue or white candles or flowers.” Valérie stepped down from her box, and I hurried after her.

“Valérie, wait!” I called.

She turned, her long, white skirt flaring around her ankles. “Yes?”

“The Iwa spirits,” I blurted. “You said their possession is temporary. Is it possible they could retain a possession permanently?”

Valérie tipped back her head and laughed, her brown curls peeking out from beneath the white headscarf she wore. “Absolutely not, no.” Then her eyes met mine, and she sobered, reaching out a hand to touch my shoulder. “Child, you are troubled. Deeply troubled. What is it?”

I almost laughed at being called a child. Valérie had to be the same age as me, possibly younger. While I struggled over what, exactly, to tell her—I had a feeling this could all go sideways as soon as I mentioned Marie Laveau’s name—Valérie continued speaking. “I sense power within you,” she said, eyes direct, hard, staring into my very soul. “You have magic, but not voodoo magic.”

“I’m more of a Salem witch gal,” I said.

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