Cheri Scotch - VooDoo Moon 03 - The Werewolf's Sin

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THE WEREWOLF’S SIN
THE VOODOO MOON TRILOGY BOOK 3
CHERI SCOTCH
Moon, moon, gold-horned moon, check the flight of bullets, blunt the hunters’ knives, break the
shepherds’ cudgels, cast wild fear upon all cattle, on men, on all creeping things, that they may not catch
the gray wolf, that they may not rend his warm skin! My word is binding, more binding than sleep, more
binding than the promise of a hero.
• Old Russian charm to invoke the Moon Goddess’s aid in becoming a werewolf
PART ONE
The Lives of the Werewolves
Sgt. Joe Ed Landry of the New Orleans Police Department approached the little house as
apprehensively as he had ever approached a crisis crime situation. It looked pretty peaceful out here in
Addis—hell, people in Addis took relaxation to a fine art form—but he knew it could blow up at any
minute.
The house looked like somebody’d just gotten up and gone inside. A rocker, peeling its paint, moved
back and forth on the long front porch. A half-full glass of lemonade, the sides still frosted with cold, sat
on a little wicker table beside the rocker.
Joe Ed shivered. Shee-it. It was early February. Even down here in the South, it was still too chilly in the
mornings to sit on the porch with lemonade.
The first gunshot sounded close by. Thirty years of training made Joe Ed hit the ground, his eyes scoping
the area. The second gunshot sounded just as loud. It came from the same place. This time, Joe Ed heard
the pinging of metal as a bullet connected.
After the third shot, Joe Ed heard a familiar voice.
“Ooo-wee!” the voice complained. “I think I done lost my touch.”
Joe Ed stood up and dusted off his pants.
“Will you watch where you pointin’ that thing?” he yelled. “Ain’t you never seen the police films on
firearm safety? What are you, a NRA or somethin’?”
Joe Ed walked around to the back of the house, where Captain Achille Broussard, also of the NOPD,
was aiming a .38 Smith & Wesson at the top of his house. He didn’t look much like a police captain: his
long, dark hair, usually kept neatly in a ponytail, cascaded free down his back. His short-sleeved T-shirt
emphasized his powerful arms and shoulders. And the little gold hoop earring wasn’t what Joe Ed would
call standard police issue.
“Hey, Joe Ed,” Achille said without looking at him, “where y’at?”
Joe Ed, unable to resist, followed Achille’s aim. On top of the house was a large metal weather vane
shaped like a rooster. The rooster’s metal tail feathers and a good part of the rear end were shot off.
“I hate that fucker,” Achille explained. “The last tenants I had in here were from someplace up north,
Kansas or one of them places; they put it up there to remind “em of home.”
Joe Ed nodded. To a New Orleans native, anyplace above Shreveport was “up north.” And
inconsequential.
“You ever thought of just climbin’ up there and takin’ it down?” Joe Ed suggested.
“Maybe I shoulda used the nine-millimeter, you think?”
“Hell, you woulda blown ya whole roof off. You never was that good a shot. I always meant to tell ya
that, but the occasion just never came up.”
Achille tore his attention away from the offensive weather vane and clapped Joe Ed on the shoulder.
“Well, come on in. I got some red beans and rice left over from last night, and there’s a couple of cold
Dixies in there. I even got a few bottles of that Blackened Voodoo beer— somebody dishonest done
lifted “em from a crime scene and left “em in my office one time.“
“You drinkin’ the evidence?”
“Hell, they weren’t evidence. They were in the refrigerator. The ol’ boys who owned “em weren’t gonna
drink ’em where they were going.”
Achille led Joe Ed into a comfortable country kitchen flooded with sunlight. Cooking implements hung
from exposed, stained beams, yellow cafe curtains hung at the windows, and Joe Ed found himself seated
at a big butcher-block table on a yellow painted chair. The place was immaculate.
“You got a cleaning lady comin’ in, Achille?” Joe Ed said, impressed. “My wife don’t keep our place
this clean.”
“I got a lot of time on my hands these days,” Achille said blandly.
That reminded Joe Ed painfully of why he was here. Nothing official was being done, but the NOPD
wanted Achille back to work. The acting homicide officer, Lt. John Sullivan, was worried about Achille.
“I don’t begrudge him his mourning period,” Sullivan had said, “but this isn’t like him. He’s changing, and
it’s not for the better. We gotta get the Cap back here; once he’s in the mainstream, he’ll recover. He’s
not living in Mae’s house in the Quarter anymore; he’s just holing up in that little house of his in Addis and
going slowly nuts. Go see what you can find out.”
Sullivan had handed Joe Ed a folder with some photos and press clippings. “See what he thinks of
these.”
Achille heated up the red beans. Joe Ed watched him carefully, with a professional’s eye. Achille looked
as good as ever—Joe Ed had never figured out how Achille stayed so young and good looking; good
genes, he guessed—but there was something very old, very painful about the way Achille moved. Achille
had always been all energy, all authoritative motion and decisive action. Now he was slow and tentative,
as if he were moving underwater, or just slightly behind the beat of life. It was as if he had lost part of
himself somewhere, the part that moved him and gave him his drive.
Well, thought Joe Ed, perhaps he had. Achille had lost plenty in the past few months.
Joe Ed inadvertently thought of his wife. They’d been together for so long that they took each other for
granted, but if he ever lost her… He gave a slight shudder.
Achille set a steaming plate of rice smothered in red beans and spicy chunks of andouille sausage before
Joe Ed. A basket of crisp French bread broken into large pieces sat beside the plate. “Damn, this smells
good,” Joe Ed said.
“Us bayou boys know how to cook,” Achille agreed. “But you didn’t come all the way nearly to Baton
Rouge for the cuisine.” Achille took a long draft of his beer.
Joe Ed looked at his plate. “Yeah, you right,” he said quietly.
“Am I fired?” Achille said. He didn’t sound particularly concerned.
“No!” Joe Ed said, startled. “Hellno! But the Chief wants you back on the job, Achille. Sullivan’s up to
his ass without you; he can’t even begin to fill your shoes, not even temporary, and he knows it. The chief
reminds him of it at least once a week—he’s on Sullivan’s ass like a pit bull. It’s been over a month
already.”
“That long?” Achille mused.
“Achille,” Joe Ed’s voice grew softer, “We all loved her. Mae Charteris was one of the finest women in
New Orleans. The Voodoos loved her better than any queen they’d ever had since Marie Laveau.
Personally, I’ll never forget all she did for the department; hell, we got cases’d still be open if not for her
aidin’ the investigations. Shit, she knew everything went on in this town. But…“
“You about to tell me she wouldn’t want to see me like this.”
“You should know.”
Achille sat back in his chair, balancing it on its two back legs. His long, curly black hair, streaked with a
little gray, freed from its usual pony tail, hung over the chair’s back. Almost unconsciously, he reached up
to touch the small gold hoop in his ear.
She had put it there, so long ago. She said it would keep other women away from him. She had been
wrong about that; women seemed more attracted to him than ever when he wore it. But she was entirely
correct in assuming that Achille would want none of them. Only her. It had always been only her, from
the moment he saw her, when she was sixteen and he was eighteen.
It wasn’t that he couldn’t believe she was dead. He believed it, all right. What amazed him was that he
was still alive without her.
“It’s too soon,” Achille said.
“Too soon, hell,” Joe Ed said. “Look, I’m gonna play hardball here.” He tossed the folder on the table.
Achille looked at it, but didn’t move. “And this is…?”
“This is, among other things, a two-day-old newspaper story about Reverend Eric Ely. The rev has just
been granted another postponement, courtesy of his high-priced New York lawyer, Russell Berkman. I
guess you heard’a him?”
Achille had. Berkman was every felon’s dream, a grandstanding publicity hound who happened to also
be a fine lawyer. He took media-intensive cases and made a reputation for winning the hard ones.
Achille still didn’t move, but he looked interested.
“How’s Ely affording Russell Berkman? I thought he was broke just posting bail.”
“He’ll never be broke as long as people are willin’ to be duped in the name of the Lord,” Landry said in
disgust. “Them religious fanatics in his church posted his bail and now they’re paying for his defense.
Some of ’em even mortgaged their houses to do it.”
Achille closed his eyes and seemed to stop breathing.
“Listen, Achille, you ain’t been around,” Landry said. “You ain’t heard it all. This guy’s become a
celebrity, especially since Berkman took his case. He’s got money pouring in from everywhere; even
these TV preachers who’d rather see their mothers raped at high noon in Jackson Square than give up a
nickel are yellin’ about what a martyr he is, how he was only doin’ the Lord’s work when he…”
Joe Ed stopped just in time. Achille hadn’t moved or opened his eyes, but his face was heating up, his
skin becoming suffused with blood.
Joe Ed waited a few minutes before he spoke again.
“You think I like sayin’ this? You think I don’t know what it does to you? Well, I don’t care, not if it
gets you outta this house and back in New Orleans, where you belong. I don’t care if you never speak to
me again.”
It was a long time before Achille moved or spoke.
“Joe Ed, you ever seen pictures of Jack the Ripper’s victims?”
“No,” Landry said, mystified. “I didn’t know therewas any. I thought they just had artists in those days.”
“No. There were a few pictures taken at the scenes. I saw them when I was just a young cop, studying
everything I could about police work. I saw pictures of, I think it was Mary Kelly. She hardly looked like
a human being. In all my time in homicide, I never saw anything worse. Not until the afternoon in the
morgue when they unzipped that bag and I had to identify Mae’s body. You see what he did to her, Joe
Ed?“
Joe Ed squirmed in his chair. He wanted to cry. He’d seen.
“Thirty-seven stab wounds,” Achille said, “the first one through the throat would have killed her, but he
didn’t stop there. He was going good, the Lord was guiding his hand, he said he was ridding New
Orleans of this Voodoo vermin—although I hear that’s gonna be inadmissible as a confession when it
comes to trial.
“You know what was strange, Joe Ed, was that she never took him seriously. Just the day before, he’d
grabbed her on the street and said, ”I could kill you right now and my God would forgive me because the
blood of Jesus says that thou shalt not suffer a Witch to live!“
“She never told me this, of course. I heard it later, from the Voodoo woman who was with her at the
time, Sister Claudine. Claudine said that Mae just shrugged him off and laughed. She told him she was
real glad, then, that she was a Voodoo and not a Witch. If I’d known about that, his ass would have
been in jail even if he got me later for unlawful arrest. I think that it drove him right over the brink that she
thought he was a clown. He had this picture of himself as a powerful preacher, maybe someday he was
gonna be Jerry Falwell or Pat Robertson with big TV shows and people who’d do whatever he told “em
and enough money to buy himself a few congressmen. Hell, now he’s famous. Maybe he’ll have
everything he wanted.”
Joe Ed felt an overwhelming sadness settle on him.
“Ya know what was the worst, Joe Ed?” Achille said. “It took me almost twenty-five years to talk that
woman into marryin’ me. She never would. She just said we were too different. I told her that if I had to,
I’d go to another Voodoo woman and get some gris-gris that’dmake her marry me, and she just looked
at me with that wise expression of hers and said, “Oh yeah? And maybe someday you’ll get up in the
night to pee and your dick’ll fall off.” “
Joe Ed couldn’t help but laugh. That sounded like Mae, all right.
“But I wore her down, and she gave in. She said she was gonna staybeautiful forever, but she wasn’t
gonna stayyoung forever and she might need somebody around someday to help her out of her walker
or change her diapers,” Achille said. “The day she died was our five-month anniversary.”
“I didn’t know that,” Joe Ed said quietly.
“Yeah. Well.”
They sat a moment in uneasy silence.
Achille opened his eyes and suddenly tilted forward in the chair, settling it down on all four legs. He
looked frankly at Joe Ed, and the stark pain in his eyes made Joe Ed flinch inwardly.
“Hell, what does the department need me for? I can’t do any more work on this case. They think I
haven’t done everything I could already?”
Joe Ed shook his head. “We don’t want you back for that. Hell, we got other cases, ya know. It’s just
that… you’re not doin’ yourself or anybody else any good out here, Achille. You’re just gettin’ worse.
You were never the kind of man who could stand doin” nothing.”
“Who says I’m doing nothing?” Achille said enigmatically. Joe Ed expected him to elaborate, but he
didn’t volunteer any information.
“I could come back to New Orleans,” Achille said, “but the next homicide you’d be investigating will be
a lot closer to home. Because if I’m anywhere near Ely, even if he’s in protective custody, even if you got
him locked in a vault at the Whitney Bank with a round-the-clock SWAT team on his ass… I’ll kill him.
If I hadn’t come out here, I’d of killed him already.“
Achille patted Joe Ed on the shoulder.
“So just eat your red beans and drink your Dixie,cher ami . You tried your best. Tell “em I’ll be back
when I come back.”
After Joe Ed left, Achille sat for a long time in his house, looking at nothing, trying to think of nothing. It
was no good. He could still see Mae’s face as she laughed over morning coffee with him, or as she
closed her eyes and gasped in passion when she lay beneath him. He could remember her flashes of
anger as she recounted to him some act of violence done to one of her followers, a crime that would
never even come to trial, and told him that the only way it could be made right was through the
intervention of the loup-garou, the Louisiana werewolf, the last route to justice when human justice failed.
For the last thirty years, Achille had administered that justice.
Transformed, with supernatural strength and with a precise psychic power that gave him unquestioned
proof as to the guilt or innocence of a man’s conscience, Achille would stalk the night until he had seen to
it that true justice was finally done, the balance of good and evil restored.
And now, when he himself had been violated in the most awful way, he was helpless. He was
imprisoned in his own principles. He wanted to let his fury out, to let it swell and grow and burst until the
corruption of it drained from his soul and made him a free man again.
Every day, every night, was a struggle against his anger. Each second that he let Ely live was actually a
victory for him. But it was hollow, unsatisfying, a victory that stung like defeat.
Achille took up his Smith & Wesson and went back outside, to vent a little of his venom on the
unfortunate weather vane.
When Mae was killed, Achille wasn’t as rational as he was with Joe Ed. At first, he was too stunned to
mourn. He couldn’t speak coherently or see anyone, he refused to go anywhere. He shut himself in the
cocoon of Mae’s house, the house he’d shared with her for so many years as her lover and for so brief a
passage as her husband.
Even his friend Andrew Marley, who could usually get Achille to see the reason in anything, couldn’t
communicate with him. The Voodoos, and the heartbroken but strong young woman who was Mae’s
successor as queen, had given her a wonderful funeral in her faith. The young queen had performed the
necessary and solemn rites for Mae, freeing her soul to fly away in freedom. Achille couldn’t bear to
attend this ritual, but the Voodoos, dealing with their own pain and loss, had well understood.
Another tribute that Achille never saw was the requiem mass that Andrew, who was the Episcopal
bishop of the diocese, had said for Mae. Andrew said that the Voodoo Queen had done so much for the
city of New Orleans that she deserved as many memorials as the people who loved her wanted to have.
Mae had been a good friend to Andrew and they rarely saw any conflicts in their respective religions.
“We’re all trying to be the best people we can be, to make the world a better place,” Mae had told him
once. “Doesn’t really matter how it happens, so long as it happens.”
His closest friends, Apollonius and Zizi, tried to watch over Achille, fearing for his sanity and his physical
health. Zizi once brought a big pot of gumbo over to Achille, and found him asleep in the middle of the
afternoon, the silk scarf Mae used to wear tangled in his hands, its bright colors running with tears. Zizi
merely left the gumbo in the kitchen and quietly left the house.
“He looked horrible,” Zizi told Apollonius. “Even asleep. He’s not eating, I can tell by how thin his face
looks. And his eyes have dark circles. Just lying there, he looked tortured, as if he were screaming in his
sleep.”
“Did you try reading his dreams?” Apollonius was referring to the psychic bond common between
werewolves.
She shook her head. “The kind of dreams he’s having, I want no part of. I’m not even sure he’s feeding
at the full moon. He looks sostarved.”
“He’s feeding. He has to: if he wasn’t, he’d be dead by now.”
But that conversation left Apollonius worried. Usually, under stress, a loup-garou will ease the tension by
transforming and running it out, until sheer exhaustion dropped him into a cleansing sleep. But it seemed
that Achille, usually the most exuberant of loups-garous, exulting in the transformation and the chase, had
not done that. There was something ominous about Achille’s torpor, as if he were building up to
something, and Apollonius was afraid he knew what that was.
“He’s guarding his thoughts,” Apollonius told Zizi, “trying not to let either of us see. That’s a warning sign
right there.”
“It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he’s going to do,” Zizi said. “He’s thinking of killing Ely. And
he’s going to do it at the full moon, when he has to kill anyway. I don’t see what the problem is,
Apollonius. If ever there was a kill for justice…”
“It doesn’t work that way, and you know it,” Apollonius said gently. “If it did, I would have killed the
bastard myself. But human justice has to have failed. And Ely hasn’t even been brought to trial yet My
God, he’s going to be convicted, it’s obvious. Look at the circumstances, look at the outrage in the black
community. Just look at the crime itself. The authorities want to make a public example of Ely, and
they’re right“
“Oh, Apollonius,” Zizi said in frustration, “you know that there are kills all the time that are… well, a little
premature . Cases where the loup-garou kills to stop a serial murderer or a rapist or a child abuser from
doing it again. They haven’t been brought to human justice; weare the justice in these cases.”
“Despite your being French, my dear, that’s a very American attitude. A Judge Roy Bean approach to
the law.”
“It’s realistic. Your view isidealistic . You’re the only werewolf in the world, perhaps the only one in
history , who has never killed for anything but justice. The rest of us have done it for other reasons on
occasion, even the most disciplined of us.”
“Perhaps I am, perhaps not,” he said enigmatically. “But it still stands mat I believe that the state will give
the Reverend Ely what he deserves.”
But Zizi had lived in America longer than Apollonius, who had spent most of his life roaming the world.
She was the first loup-garou in America, arriving in 1722 as Marie-Therese de la Rochette, Duchesse de
Marais. She had known Apollonius before that, while she lived in France. In fact, he was almost the only
person now who called her by her proper name. Although he had not been the one who had made her a
loup-garou, still she had learned about true lycanthropy from Apollonius. From her came the beginnings
of the Louisiana werewolves, and she had taught mem Apollonius’s code of ethics. Over those centuries
she had seen the workings of the American judicial system— in which the victim had no rights and the
killer had the full protection of the law—long enough to have had the idealism burned right out of her. She
would have been bitter, except that she knew that true justice, the justice of the gods, never fails. The
loups-garous saw to that; it was the reason they existed.
Both of them knew that Achille had always been the foremost proponent of the loup-garou’s code of
justice, an almost fanatical devotee of their strict principles of ethics. His adherence to those ethics, his
willingness to make sure that young loups-garous knew what they meant and how they operated, and his
prominence as one of the leaders of the loup-garou community had guided many a werewolf to a fulfilling,
productive life.
These were the ideals that Apollonius himself had set forth thousands of years ago and that
Marie-Therese had passed on: that it was killing in the name of higher ideals that ennobled a loup-garou,
that made him more than a murderous monster. Controlling the inbred impulse to kill took great
dedication to those ideals, and if one wavered from them, one could well be lost.
Apollonius could see that Achille was just on the edge of the gulf.
So, as the full moon approached, Zizi and Apollonius sought help from Andrew Marley. There was a
solid little cabin in the Honey Island swamps that had been in Andrew’s family for years. Windowless,
with one stout door, it could withstand an onslaught from within.
“It’s no use being evasive with me and you know it,” Apollonius told Achille. “You also know that you
can’t kill Ely.”
“He deserves it,” Achille said tonelessly, twisting Mae’s scarf in his hands.
“He deserves to die, I’ll grant you that. But not by your hand. Not yet, at any rate. If the state of
Louisiana doesn’t get him, I promise you, Achille, he’s yours. You know that. But at this point, to take it
into your own hands is wrong.”
Achille stared at a bit of the sky beyond Apollonius, where he saw nothing except the ghastly pictures in
his head. They were the same ones that kept running over and over, like bad movie clips: Mae’s body on
the autopsy table, Ely’s gloating face covered with her blood, Mae’s screams—the screams that he had
never really heard in actuality but were almost ceaselessly with him now.
“The state will kill him quickly and painlessly,” Achille said. “Want to know how I’d kill him,
Apollonius?”
“Please don’t do this, Achille.”
Achille knew he didn’t have to elaborate. “He might not even be convicted at all,” Achille said. “An
insanity plea would get him off. A couple of years of therapy, a team of smart lawyers. He’ll be back,
preaching what he considers the word of God. And there’ll be people who’ll believe him, who’ll be
convinced that God actually condones what Ely did because, after all, he let Ely get away with it. He can
just pick up his life where he left off. Where am I going to pick upmy life, Apollonius?”
“Pick it up right here, Achille. Start by leaving this house for a while. Come stay with me and Zizi; there’s
plenty of room and our place is too quiet these days.”
Achille looked directly at Apollonius, and the bleakness of his eyes struck Apollonius’s heart.
“What if it had been Zizi? What would you have done?”
Apollonius had asked himself that question a hundred times since Mae had been killed. “I would hope
that you’d do for me what I’m trying to do for you. And I think you would.”
Unexpectedly, Achille collapsed against Apollonius.
Waves of his anger and grief smashed against Apollonius’s rocklike strength. His sobs were wild howls,
great gasps of anguish that turned the air in his lungs to fire. Apollonius thought that he had heard few
things as terrible in his long life.
At the full moon, Apollonius locked Achille into the Honey Island cabin, keeping him there until his
murderous fever passed. Because a werewolf cannot survive without a kill at the full moon, Zizi brought
him a victim.
The kill was a man whose financial machinations had brought ruin to hundreds of people. He had been
caught, tried and fined, had served six months in a country-club prison, and was now out of jail, reunited
with his millions. To the courts and the newspapers and the parole boards he was profusely apologetic,
beating his breast and chanting hismea culpas in a loud voice. But privately, he bragged about his
business savvy, he talked about his dirty deals and his “hostile takeovers” in terms appropriated from
war, which was his only way of viewing the world. He regarded the people who tried and convicted him
with scorn, and the people he had ruined as inconsequential serfs who had no reason to complain. They
deserved it, he said often. They brought their destruction on themselves since they lacked the—as he put
it—“go-for-the-throat instincts” that were his substitutes for human emotions. “If they couldn’t run with
the big dogs,” he snorted, “they shouldn’t have gotten off the porch.”
Zizi knew he was vacationing in New Orleans. She caught him out that night, stunned him, and brought
him swiftly to Honey Island. As she threw him through the door into the cabin, where Achille,
transformed and terrifying, stalked like a caged and starving animal, he regained his senses.
“You’ll certainly respect this gentleman,” she told the financier. “You’re about to find out what “going for
the throat’ really means. Meet one of thereal big dogs.”
And she closed the door on his screams with a satisfied smile.
That kill took some of the sharpness off Achille’s vengeful edge, but he knew that if he stayed in New
Orleans, where Mae’s murder was going to be an emotional topic on the news and in the papers for
months, his mindless anger would grow beyond his limits to control it.
He missed the police department. Achille had always loved his work. But with the investigation of Mae’s
murder still going on, it was impossible for him to be there. He wasn’t involved in it, not officially, but the
case was on everyone’s agenda. He couldn’t avoid the topic. He knew that going back to work would
save him, would give his mind and body something concrete to do, but he just couldn’t face the
reminders of Mae.
He thought of quitting the NOPD, giving up his seniority, his pension, everything. He could get another
job, in Port Allen or Lafayette or Baton Rouge.
But for the moment he decided to do nothing, knowing that his thought processes weren’t the best and
any decision would probably be the wrong one.
So he sat in his little house in Addis, cooking gumbo and drinking Dixies, going into town for new fishing
lures and ignoring the admiring stares of the single ladies, taking target practice at the weather vane. He
worked around the house. He did some fishing. His cooking improved since he had more time to devote
to it, and he watched endless TV and rented movies in an effort to turn his mind off. He slept more hours
摘要：

THEWEREWOLF’SSINTHEVOODOOMOONTRILOGYBOOK3CHERISCOTCHMoon,moon,gold-hornedmoon,checktheflightofbullets,bluntthehunters’knives,breaktheshepherds’cudgels,castwildfearuponallcattle,onmen,onallcreepingthings,thattheymaynotcatchthegraywolf,thattheymaynotrendhiswarmskin!Mywordisbinding,morebindingthansleep...

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