“I’m not fool enough to drink that rum,” Uncle Andre said finally. “And you better cap it, because Brav won’t be pleased if you let it all spill out.”

  Heath reached down, capped the flask, and put it back in his shirt pocket. He patted it and smiled at his uncle, who slowly shook his head.

  “Boy, you’ve come up in the world, I’ll give you that. But if you think you can scare me into walking away, you don’t know me very well at all. And that would be a damn shame.”

  “Had to try, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, I see that.” Uncle Andre looked over at Nariko and Colin. “And you’ve got yourself good allies. That’s a good thing. You’ll need them, the way you work. So let’s leave them out of this. This is about you and me.”

  “We’re not going to let you kill him,” said Nariko. “Not if you expect to leave here alive. I guarantee you that.”

  Colin nodded, and Heath was startled to see the coldness in his friend’s eyes.

  But Uncle Andre laughed.

  “If I wanted the boy dead, he’d be dead. And you two couldn’t say much about it.” Uncle Andre tapped his cane three times on the floor. Uncle Andre smiled. “But Kalfu knows, and Legba knows, I don’t want to kill my nephew. Not the fine root worker he’s become. That’d be a waste of talent.”

  The smile vanished as though it had never existed, not even as a dream.

  “But, boy, I want that book. I could do things with that book that a goody-two-shoes like you could never even imagine. So there’s only one solution for this that I can see.”

  “A contest?”

  “A contest.” Uncle Andre nodded and looked around the room. “And I think we can do it right here.”

  16

  Uncle Andre spun his pale blue recliner to face Heath directly, and Heath spun his to match. The Black Book of Saint Cyprian lay on the floor between them, comatose for the time being. At least until the grimoire wore through whatever Ghede Brav’s rum had done to it.

  “I think spirit versus spirit would be a fine contest,” said Uncle Andre, voice so casual he might have been suggesting a movie he would watch with Heath. “Your best against mine.”

  “Not a chance,” said Heath, shaking his head. “I don’t keep many, and I’ve never felt the need to call up anything as vicious as that six-limbed thing that watches your back.”

  “You mean Diamond?” Uncle Andre reached up and Heath could only just see hints of the thing as Uncle Andre stroked what was probably its head. Which meant Uncle Andre had managed to sneak at least one spirit past Colin’s wards. “Yeah, this one here is a fine piece of work.”

  “Oils,” said Heath. “We each whip up a batch of Saint Cyprian oil. First to finish an oil worth using wins.”

  “That’s your first choice? You blend that many oils these days?” Uncle Andre’s bushy, steel gray eyebrows rose, then his face wrinkled in distaste. “You earning your money selling spells, boy?”

  “It’s an honest trade.” Heath couldn’t quite keep the defensiveness out of his tone. Andre Cyr was still his uncle, after all, and some family habits ran deep.

  “It’s beneath you is what it is. All the ways a good root worker like you could make his money and you shuffle along, selling conjure hands and Bend Over Oil to idiots who are scared of their own shadows or don’t know how to keep their women satisfied.” Uncle Andre shook his head. “Disgraceful.”

  “You want to talk about disgraceful?” said Heath, pulled to his feet by his rising temper. “What about zombies? Don’t tell me you’re a houngan full of noble good by punishing those who prey on your congregation. You’re a bokor without a humfo, trapping souls for—”

  “You don’t know shit about my reasons, boy.” Uncle Andre’s tone got darker than storm clouds. “Don’t you dare sit there and tell me how I choose my zombies. I work with Baron Samedi himself. You ain’t man enough yet to sit in judgment on me.”

  Heath glared down, anger as fierce as his own staring back from his uncle’s eyes.

  It was his uncle who spoke first.

  “I’m your father’s brother, and I’ve got a right to a word or two about your choices, nephew. You say ‘don’t judge me’ I say fine. I’ll try to stop. But don’t you think you can judge me either. Try it again and this little talk is going to get downright unfriendly.”

  “Fine,” said Heath, slowly reclaiming his seat.

  “How about this.” Uncle Andre tapped the floor with his cane. “We pour a shot glass of Brav’s rum, and the first one to make the other drink it gets The Black Book of Saint Cyprian.”

  Heath blinked. “You mean using compelling gaze?”

  “No, I mean by persuasive arguments. Come on, boy, do you know a thing or two or don’t you?”

  Of course Heath knew the compelling gaze. He didn’t use it often. Maybe on the occasional meter maid or hyper-aggressive salesman, but Heath was sure he didn’t get nearly as much practice at it as his uncle did. Still, he had to admit he was pretty good at the technique, and it would make for a straightforward contest with little risk to anyone else, or Colin’s house.

  Heath glanced over at Nariko and Colin, where they sat on the pale blue couch. Both shook their heads so hard their long hair whipped one another. The most emphatic synchronized “no” gesture Heath had ever seen.

  “This isn’t rum blended to test one of the Ghede’s horses,” said Heath, pulling out the flask. “This belongs to Ghede Brav. I got it in the place between, from Ghede Brav himself. Even in that place, the sip I had was impossible to swallow.”

  Uncle Andre rolled his lips around. “You think making someone swallow it might be too much to ask?”

  “I think we don’t have enough. Not if it comes down to us making one another sip it, but remain unable to make one another swallow it.”

  “Fine, first to make the other taste Brav’s rum wins and claims The Black Book of Saint Cyprian free and clear.”

  “And to be clear,” said Heath, “the first to taste Ghede Brav’s rum loses and has to accept the loss and move on. No later attempts to regain it. The loser has to find something else to do.”

  Actual pride in Uncle Andre’s smile this time. “Been making a few contracts have you? Good man. And we’re agreed. But we need a better place for this.”

  “I agree,” said Heath looking down at the sea foam carpet, already stained red in three small spots from bits of Ghede Brav’s rum. “I don’t want to risk us wrecking Colin’s living room more than we have already.”

  “The kitchen,” said Colin.

  And not much more than a minute later, Heath faced his uncle across the center island in Colin’s kitchen, each sitting on a fine wooden stool. Uncle Andre had his cane across his lap. Golden light shone down from the ceiling, giving the sunny yellow kitchen an incongruously cozy feel.

  One shot glass of Ghede Brav’s rum sat between them on the marble counter, right in the middle of a swirl of blue with another swirl of pink passing right by it. Ghede Brav’s tin flask sat to one side of the shot glass, and The Black Book of Saint Cyprian mirrored it on the other side.

  So far as Heath could tell, the Black Book remained under the spell – or maybe under the table, as it were – from the jigger of rum Heath had poured on it in the living room. Heath could still smell the rum coming from the book, the same as he could smell it in the shot glass. And just the smell was enough to itch at his nostrils, even though under the spices were hints of sweet cane sugar and molasses.

  Nariko and Colin, under protest, sat at the kitchen table. Both had wanted to stand near at hand in case of trickery, but Uncle Andre had insisted that they stay far enough away to not cause distraction. He’d actually wanted them out of the room, but the kitchen table was six feet away, far enough to serve as a compromise.

  “Ready?” said Uncle Andre, broad grin of confidence on his face. Such a wide grin, in fact, that Heath could probably have counted his uncle’s teeth, had been so inclined.

  But Heath was not so inclined. His insides felt like Jell-O in an earthquake. His shoulders were so tight he couldn’t roll them, and he thought he felt a bead of sweat on his forehead. The compelling gaze worked best from a quiet mind, but Heath had a little trouble keeping his mind quiet with so much at stake. If his uncle gained The Black Book of Saint Cyprian, the harm he could do with it…

  But Heath forced a tight-lipped smile of his own.

  “I guess you haven’t done this before.” Uncle Andre chuckled. “Since I asked if you were ready, you have to say when we begin.”

  “I do?” said Heath, feigning confusion. “I thought…” He let his words trail off when his uncle started laughing from his belly.

  “Boy,” he said, still laughing, “you—”

  “Go,” said Heath.

  He grabbed the shot glass and threw the rum in his uncle’s face.

  Every blood vessel in Uncle Andre’s eyes went red, and his already dark black skin got darker. His cane clattered to the floor. Both hands flew up to his sputtering mouth, his burning cheeks.

  Heath smiled a calmer, more relaxed smile now as he set down the shot glass, got off his stool, and grabbed the quart of milk from Colin’s refrigerator. He did hurry just a little bit back to his uncle to hand him the container.

  Uncle Andre leaned back and dumped the milk on his face and into his open mouth, ruining his suit and maybe even his shoes.

  Heath waited through his uncle’s coughing and sputtering. Over at the kitchen table, Nariko and Colin leaned toward each other, whispering furtively.

  Heath couldn’t keep the smile from his face though. He’d finally beaten his uncle. He felt as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. It wasn’t enough to make up for nearly being buried alive as a human sacrifice when he was a kid, but it helped.

  Finally his uncle looked up at him, fury in his milk-spattered eyes. But Uncle Andre sank his teeth into his bottom lip. He dropped the empty milk carton and grabbed the white marble countertop with both hands, gripping tight and breathing heavy through his nose.

  “It still burns,” he said through clenched teeth.

  Nariko and Colin’s chairs scraped back as they stood. Even out of the corner of his eye, Heath could tell that Nariko was ready to spring into action. She had that slight bend to her knees, and her hands were up in not quite a guard position. Colin had some laminated talisman in his hand, ready to use.

  “Drinking the rum was your idea for a contest,” Heath said, focusing on his uncle.

  “We were supposed to use compelling gaze.” The lips moved, but Uncle Andre’s jaws remained clamped shut.

  “Yes, but the rules we set—”

  “I know.” Uncle Andre closed his eyes and Heath could see him count. Then his nostrils flared in another deep breath and he let go of the counter. He reached down and picked up his cane.

  “Watch it,” said Nariko. “No sudden moves now. You—”

  “Lost.” This time Uncle Andre was smiling as he said it, both chagrin and humor in his bloodshot eyes. “I know. And I honor my bargains.”

  “I never doubted that,” said Heath with complete sincerity. He may have considered his uncle the most evil man walking the Earth, but like an actual Satan, he tended to abide by the letter of an agreement. And Heath had slipped one past him.

  “Gotta stop thinking of you as my nephew,” said Uncle Andre with some admiration, “and start thinking of you as a proper conjure man. That was a fine trick you just played.”

  “You’d have done it yourself if you hadn’t been so sure you’d win.”

  “Exactly,” said Uncle Andre. “Won’t underestimate you again, you understand.”

  “I know,” said Heath, and when Uncle Andre met his eyes they shared a moment. Not quite the proper familial love they should have owed one another, but something closer to it than Heath could remember sharing with his uncle in many, many years.

  Uncle Andre looked at the grimoire again and sighed.

  “Tell me you aren’t going to destroy it. Don’t waste that kind of power.”

  Heath sighed as he stared at it. “I’m not sure I could.”

  “Go with that thought. And if you need someone to tutor you in its darker secrets…”

  “I won’t.”

  “Worth a shot.” Uncle Andre saluted Heath with his cane, then nodded to Nariko and Colin. “Take care of him now, you two.”

  “He’s smarter than you think,” said Nariko, drawing wide eyes from both Colin and Heath.

  “Maybe,” said Uncle Andre. “Maybe.”

  And with that, Uncle Andre turned and left without looking back.

  “Is he really gone?” said Colin.

  “You think he won’t try again?” said Nariko.

  Heath shook his head. “He can’t afford to start breaking deals. Spirits pick up on that kind of thing. If you’re free to break your deals, then so are they.”

  Heath shuddered, and when the shudder finished exhaustion rained down on him. Pounded at his head and limbs.

  “I think,” he said slowly, eyes half-lidded, “I just” – he yawned – “lost the last of my … adrenaline … and my spelllllll…” The rest of the word was lost in another yawn. Heath’s eyes closed, and he felt hands lead him to someplace soft and comfortable. And then he was fast asleep.

  17

  Once Heath decided what was to become of The Black Book of Saint Cyprian, it was Colin who found the place they needed.

  Buried among the Douglas firs behind a cemetery in Lake Oswego was a stone house that looked to Heath as though it should have been built somewhere in 16th century Europe or something. Germany maybe. Smooth stones, fitted into place with a minimum of mortar and stacked high enough to include a second floor half the size of the main floor. A bell tower stretched up a third story.

  The place was too big to hide, even among the trees behind a cemetery. Or it would have been, if it weren’t for an interpretation of a don’t-notice-me spell. That wasn’t quite what it was. It was more like an is-this-important? spell, where onlookers could only see the place if they had business there.

  And even that wasn’t quite right, because it didn’t quite feel like a spell. But that was only appropriate, considering the people who Colin said lived there.

  Heath and his friends went to this building behind the cemetery on the second day after Heath’s victory of Uncle Andre. The first day was spent largely celebrating, which honestly meant sleeping and eating delivery pizza and staring at whatever comedies Colin could find on his satellite television until they all felt decompressed and ready to face the world.

  Only then, on the second day, did Colin run them each past their homes for a change of clothes before they came down here. Heath grabbed more than clothes, though. He also grabbed a pair of rosaries he’d already blessed in the name of Damballah, and used them to wrap the Black Book to make sure it stayed quiet and made no effort at persuading him or finding another host/owner.

  That might not have been strictly necessary though. Truth was, the book seemed to be sulking. So far as Heath could tell, the grimoire knew it had gambled everything on Uncle Andre and lost, so as long as Heath wasn’t trying to destroy it, it was going to sit there and shut up.

  Which was fine with Heath. Because destroying it might not have worked anyway.

  And so it was that the three of them came to be standing in the woods behind that cemetery, staring at this stone house under a bright, cheerful July sky on a pleasantly warm day. Colin wore torn, faded purple jeans and a Danzig tee-shirt featuring a monstrous skull and an inverted cross, which Heath considered in bad taste. Nariko wore her hair loose over a cream-colored, low-cut blouse and dark burgundy slacks. Heath wore loose blue jeans with a red-and-white striped button up shirt with short sleeves.

  Heath had his backpack slung over one shoulder, and the rosary-bound Black Book of Saint Cyprian tucked under the other arm.

  “You’re sure this is the place?” he said.

  “Look at it.” Colin presented the building with his hand. “Could you picture anyplace more appropriate?”

  “I expected crosses,” muttered Nariko.

  “Crucifixes,” corrected Heath.

  “Details,” said Colin. “This is the place.”

  They approached a stout door made of thick, rough boards of dark wood, bound with iron bands. It had a mini-door that could swing open at head-height, and no doorknob or handle that Heath could see.

  Heath raised an eyebrow at Colin, but lifted his fist and pounded three loud strikes.

  Nothing seemed to happen.

  In fact, nothing seemed to happen for so long that Heath raised his fist to knock again when finally the mini-door swung open, revealing a tanned, pointed man’s face with a tonsured scalp.

  “Yes?” the man said in a surprisingly gentle tone. “How may I assist you? I am afraid I’m not good at giving directions.”

  “Is this the Protective Order of Saint Benedict?”

  The man blinked, and looked sharper at Heath’s face, then the faces of Colin and Nariko.

  “I feel the power you bring to my door,” said the man, his voice still gentle but his words pointed, “and I feel evil among you as well. In the name of Michael I charge you, speak the truth of your purpose.”

  And when the man said those words, Heath could feel a single shaft of sunlight find him there among the trees. Golden sun all around him, making him glow. The need for honesty filled him, but Heath had dealt with many kinds of compulsions over the years. He knew full well he could have fought this one too, and maybe even beaten it.

  But Heath had no reason to lie right now.

  “I’ve come into possession of The Black Book of Saint Cyprian. I have fought battles I did not seek to keep it out of the hands of those who would use it for evil. I cannot keep it for it might corrupt me. I do not know how to destroy it. The Vatican sheltered it for more than a thousand years. I’d like to think you people can shelter it for a thousand more.”

  The man’s eyes and mouth opened wider than the loving arms of his Savior. On such a pointed face – the man’s nose must have reached eight inches or more forward from his ears – the sight made Heath laugh.