The Reign Maker

By L. E. Gay

The time has come for a new queen to rule the order. As the New Orleans faction hosts Voodoo royalty from across the country, Nalia Deminy’s right to reign is challenged. When Madame Vivian Luciénne’s shocking appeal to the elders sparks a partnership with a dark sorcerer bent on revenge and destruction, Nalia must harness her newfound powers to stop the ensuing chaos and save her family. Who is the mysterious faction head from New York, what is his interest in Mama Lu, and who is really pulling the strings?

• Language: English
• Publisher: L. E. Gay
• Release date: Oct 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370273089

L. E. Gay

L. E. Gay is a recreational author from Southeast Texas, where he lives and writes beneath a canopy of 150 year-old oak trees with his wife Carol, their English shepherd Treble, and their cats Timmy and Sasha. He is blessed to be supported by his family and friends, and is currently working on the next chapter of Nalia’s life in New Orleans.

Book preview

Never doubt, and never forget,

you are treasured above the stars.

Copyright 2016 L. E. Gay

Smashwords Edition

Thank you for purchasing this e-Book. It is licensed and intended for your personal enjoyment only. This e-Book may not be resold, given away, or copied in any manner whether complete or in part without the expressed written consent of the copyright holder. While the sharing of this work is, by all means, encouraged, the copyright holder asks that you please purchase another copy for the recipient. If you are reading this e-Book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use, please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

This book is a work of fiction. While some references are made to real places, historical figures and events; the characters, their environment, and their actions are all products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. Any resemblance the characters may exhibit to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Thanks to God and to all who helped proofread and preview this book. Special thanks to my wife Carol and my daughter Ali, without whom this work would be an unintelligible collection of misspelled words and random phrases. I love you very much and truly appreciate all your help.

– L. E. Gay

The Reign Maker

By

L. E. Gay

Sometimes you got to get yo’ hands dirty to keep yo’ house clean.

-Mambo Lucia Deminy

Table of Contents

Dedication

Copyright Page

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

About the author

Also by L. E. Gay

Chapter One

The sunlight was intrusive. Without apology it barged through the grime-coated glass, brazenly assaulting Madame Vivian Luciénne’s offended eyelids. The self-professed priestess lay motionless, barely awake, squinting and staring at the ragged stretch of roof beyond the muck-crusted window. Vague remnants of a strange, recurring dream still muddied her mind. She did her best to dismiss them, trying instead to focus on the world outside, but found little beyond the glass worthy of her attention. The view was far from picturesque: a rusty, decommissioned air-conditioning unit surrounded by faded, yellow caution tape. She grew tired of watching the tattered ends flap in the breeze the same as yesterday and the day before.

Her two-weeks-and-counting stay at Mercy Hospital continued to drag on like a southern summer. Minutes stretched into excruciatingly long hours while she did little more than press the worn, red button of the morphine pump attached to her left arm in futile attempts to dull the pain.

The wound in her neck throbbed unceasingly when the medication wore off, but her overall pain lessened a bit each day. As of late, Madame Luciénne found herself pressing the button more for the escalating pain in her back than the ache in her neck, a side effect of the hateful bed currently holding her prisoner. To her dismay, the pump would not deliver more than the measured dose, no matter how many times she squeezed the useless button. Fully aware of the cruel truth, Madame Luciénne pushed it nevertheless. Her body and mind longed for relief like an addict craving a high. More than once she thought of her mother: a track-marked, emaciated junkie sitting in her own urine amid the squalor she called home, willing to give up anything for her next fix. Madame Luciénne shoved the thought back to the recesses of her mind and pressed the button again.

She slept a lot over the course of her stay, slipping in and out of a drug-induced haze. Madame Luciénne often startled awake, vivid memories of a handsome man’s azure blue eyes and his quick, slashing blade sending her heart racing, as adrenaline coursed through her body. Scenes of an old man pulling the naked, ashen corpse of a prostitute across the floor with a furniture dolly also haunted her dreams, as did images of a swirling, wine glass filled with her own blood. Sometimes the memories faded away when she pressed the button. Sometimes she pressed it just so they would.

During moments of lucidity, Vivian saw several doctors. While they all agreed her prognosis was hopeful, each remained equally amazed she was alive. One surgeon confided he only ever discussed cases like hers with next of kin, never with a survivor. She was in full cardiac arrest when the paramedics brought her in. Her heart seized from the stress of trying to rapidly circulate the precious few pints of blood left in her body. The doctors estimated Madame Luciénne lost forty-five percent of her blood volume, and none of them could explain how her feeble form was clinging to life. She took a full seven units of blood during the five-hour surgery on her neck and another two the following day. By all medical and logical reasoning, Madame Luciénne should be lying in a coffin instead of a hospital bed.

As the sun rose higher in the morning sky, Madame Luciénne silently scoffed at her physicians’ naïvety. The Voodoo underground of New Orleans was just as alive and well as she was and even more resilient. Her doctors, with all their capital letters behind their names touting advanced levels of education and extensive knowledge of human anatomy, understood nothing outside the physical realm. They may not know why Madame Luciénne’s life was spared the night Jack Haufmann left her to bleed out in the dark workroom above his store in the French Quarter, but she did. Mama Lu was no doubt responsible for that little miracle.

It was not the first time the great Mambo, Mama Lucia Deminy saved her life. A seasoned high-priestess of Haitian descent, well-respected and feared by the underworld of New Orleans, Mama Lu controlled life and death with a wave of her hand. The spirits of Voodoo did more than come to her aid; they bowed down as servants to a goddess. Mama Lu’s power and prowess were unrivaled, Madame Luciénne knew better than anyone.

Having been apprenticed to Mama Lu for a time, years ago, Vivian witnessed sinister, unnatural rituals – ones in which the victim’s soul was split from their still-living mutilated flesh. The body was left shriveled and twisted, a paralyzed shell barely clinging to life, cursed to endure years of torture as a trophy for the great Mambo.

Vivian also knew of countless times Mama Lu controlled a person’s will so completely, they carried out her bidding with no regard for the preservation of their own life. While the latter was a source of constant fascination for Madame Luciénne, the former had frightened her enough to abandon her allegiance. Just as well, she often thought. It was better to choose her own destiny than to have it stripped away – a certainty after Nalia arrived. From the time the abused and abandoned child was taken to raise, it was clear she would be groomed as Mama Lu’s successor, with Vivian playing second fiddle to the favored. She knew the feeling all too well and vowed long ago never to relive it. Another stinging memory of her mother flashed across Vivian’s mind. She pushed the button but found no relief.

With her back screaming in opposition, Madame Luciénne rolled over and stared at the bronze crucifix on the otherwise naked wall. There was not much else to look at in her neglected, hospital room, apart from a dying arrangement of flowers on a small stand in the far corner. The vase of white tulips and yarrow had been confined to the room nearly as long as Vivian. Someone was watering them; they held their vigor respectably, failing to wither until just days ago. There did not seem to be a card attached, and Vivian kept meaning to inquire about them but always forgot when nurses were in the room. The drugs were not kind to her memory in that regard.

She did remember asking for a mirror once but had yet to be extended the courtesy. She did not persist. Truth be told, Vivian wasn’t sure she wanted to see her reflection. The dressing on her neck was hot and itchy, the brace stiff and uncomfortable. Her scar was sure to be hideous. Having grown her own brand of hoodoo trickery into a thriving business, Madame Luciénne relied heavily on her charm to influence her clientele. Her newfound blemish was sure to be a hindrance. How would clients concentrate on her cleavage when they were staring at the salient wound on her neck? Each run-in with Mama Lu left Vivian similarly affected: alive, but scarred.

She was fortunate, she supposed. She had betrayed the great Mambo Lucia Deminy twice, historically twice more than others lived to tell about. For some reason, Mama Lu spared her, and the thought of being grateful ate at Vivian like a cancer.

The strained cry of neglected hinges pulled Madame Luciénne from her musing, followed abruptly by a piercing screech as the heavy wooden door stuck on a patch of uneven floor at the end of its path.

No, no, no, not again! declared a young nurse, entering the room and tugging fiercely on the door in a futile attempt to dislodge it. Crap! she said, finally giving up and shaking her head. Releasing a defeated sigh, she stood with her hands on her hips, staring at her unyielding nemesis.

Problem? coughed Madame Luciénne in a raspy voice. The word burned in her throat; she became suddenly aware of how little she actually spoke over the last two weeks.

The young nurse nearly swallowed her gum as she whipped around, startled. You’re awake, she said, watching Madame Luciénne raise her brow in disdain. I’m sorry, the nurse continued, I don’t think you’ve ever been awake when I’ve been in before.

Perhaps you’ve never made such an ungodly racket before, replied Madame Luciénne, wincing from the pain and shifting in her bed.

Oh no, believe me, I have plenty of times, said the nurse, without thinking. Greta’s going to kill me. That’s my supervisor. She’s warned me a hundred times about this door. Last time she had to get maintenance up here with a pry bar to get it unstuck.

Madame Luciénne rolled her eyes and did her best to turn her head. Her patience was razor-thin, and she had no desire to engage in idle chat-chat with one of her captors.

I’m Edith, said the nurse, trying to ignore the overt dismissal. I’ve been looking in on you since you got here, just haven’t had the opportunity to talk to you yet. They reassigned me to this floor to train. Not sure why. I think Mama Lu may have had something to do with that. She’s been asking about you.

What did you say? snapped Vivian, pain searing through her neck as she unwittingly whipped her head back toward the nurse.

Mama Lu, repeated Edith, pulling the bed sheet from Vivian’s arm and checking her IV site. She’s been checking on you. Asked me to let her know how you were doing. She calls every couple of days to make sure you’re healing up proper. Edith thumbed the IV’s roller clamp tightly into its groove, crimping off the drip. I’ve got orders to DC your IV and start your pain meds by mouth. Looks like you’ll be going home soon.

Madame Luciénne barely heard the announcement; her mind was still preoccupied with Mama Lu. Why was Mama Lucia Deminy concerned about her progress? What difference did it make? What business was it of the great Mambo?

Her daughter dropped by yesterday, Edith continued, pulling at a corner of the tape holding Vivian’s IV in place. Nalia, I think her name is?

Vivian’s lip curled, but her eyes went distant. A fleeting memory, little more than a feeling, raced through her consciousness, but it was enough to take her back to the dusty workroom above Jack Haufmann’s store: darkness, cold, desperation, emptiness… remorse? She felt the sensation of arms cradling her cold, lifeless body. Her soul moved toward the veil stretched between the worlds. She had the will to resist, but not the ability, her essence a mere leaf on the wind. Just before she breached the darkness, her soul stopped short. For an instant, Madame Luciénne saw Nalia’s face and then, a blinding white light. Her spirit lurched with a spark, like lightning filling the void in her soul, allowing warmth to float in like a gentle, rising tide. Nearly as quickly as it appeared, the imagery was lost, leaving Vivian confused and withdrawn. The sting of tape ripping her skin yanked her back to reality.

I’m sorry, said Edith, wincing as Vivian did the same. Looks like your skin is really sensitive to this adhesive. I’ll bring some ointment for that. Vivian slowly released the breath held captive by her lungs as Edith removed the IV and continued to ramble.

I’m guessing you must know Mama Lu pretty well. Nalia told me she is going to be tying the knot. Said her friend, John, popped the question just days ago. I met him once. He seemed nice. Can you believe after all these years the great Voodoo queen is getting married? Word is Nalia is going to be taking over for her as the new queen. Nalia said…

I’ve heard enough about Nalia Deminy, seethed Madame Luciénne. A longing stirred inside her at the thought of Nalia taking over Mama Lu’s position, a single ember left among the ashes of a fire long dead. Disgust rose like bile in the back of her throat. Spiteful thoughts assaulted her brain like well-thrown daggers. I should be next in line. I should be the rightful Voodoo queen of New Orleans. The power should have passed to me. If Nalia hadn’t come along, I would be running this city by now. Madame Luciénne played scenarios in her mind: how things could have been – should have been. Oh, how things would be different if I had received the power I was groomed for!

Confused by the outburst, Edith’s muscles tensed, and her defenses went up. She thought surely Madame Luciénne would be happy for Mama Lu and Nalia, but the animosity rising in the woman’s eyes told a different story – a frightening story. The doctor should be in shortly to discuss a plan of care for after you’re discharged, she said, placing a cotton ball and a Band-Aid over the IV site and bending Madame Luciénne’s arm at the elbow. Clearing her throat, she nervously balled bits of tape and scraps of gauze between her fingers before tossing them in the trash. You’ll want to keep your arm bent like that for a few minutes, she continued. I’ve got orders for your meds. Are you in any pain right now?

Two weeks of confinement and frustration mingled with a lifetime of disappointment further souring Madame Luciénne’s disposition. More and more every minute, she replied with an acid tongue.

Edith swallowed hard and turned for the door. I’ll bring you something, she said quietly.

Take those cursed flowers with you, snapped Madame Luciénne. Throw them out; there’s not even a card on them.

Oh, didn’t you find it? asked Edith, whipping around. It got wet so I put it in the drawer to dry. It’s right there in the stand. Edith crossed the room hoping to salvage a shred of serenity. Perhaps the card would raise her patient’s spirit, if only just. Opening the drawer, she retrieved the tiny envelope and slid the card from its pocket. There’s no signature, she relayed, It just says, ‘life is like a spinning wheel.’

Another blade of envy stabbed Madame Luciénne right in the heart. Get them out of my sight! she screamed, her throat burning with rage.

Edith cowered and stuffed the card into the wilting arrangement. She silently wished Madame Luciénne was sleeping today, like all the other times she checked in. Cradling the flowers in her arm, she turned to leave. As she exited the room, Edith gave a final, hopeful tug on the thick, wooden door lodged on the swollen flooring. It did not budge. I’ll see if I can get maintenance to come up and fix this, she said timidly as she left.

Madame Luciénne barely heard the comment for all the malicious thoughts bombarding her brain. She gave a dismissive wave and gingerly turned her head back toward the window. She did not notice the heavy door swing smoothly shut as her fingertips cut through the air.

Chapter Two

Vapors rose from the pavement as the morning sun turned a fresh crop of dew into mist. Though the fragrance of fresh flowers danced liberally over the damp air, it proved no match for the smell of hot beignets near Café Du Monde. Nalia’s stomach writhed with hunger in response to the powerful scent. She visited often and remembered smelling the distinct aroma more times than she could count, but today was different; the world around her felt slightly askew. Thoughts raced through her mind in scattered patterns, and her muscles were sore and stiff, like she’d just awakened from napping on a slab of bricks. She was cold and strangely aware of feeling chilled for some time. The sensation reminded Nalia of a phrase tossed around by older women: cold down in my bones.

Nalia stood in the shadow of a building on the river side of Decatur Street, shaking and rubbing the goose bumps from her arms as a cool breeze whipped across the water. She was near The Doll Maker, but the neighboring shops were unfamiliar. People passed on the sidewalk near her secluded alcove, close enough to touch but too busy to notice. Nalia watched them, studied them. Their clothes were outdated – vintage. One passerby sported a New Orleans Jazz basketball jersey and carried a Sony Walkman cassette player with foam headphones. A pair of young ladies walking behind him wore cap sleeve blouses, high-waisted jeans, and ankle boots. Their hair, styled big and natural, bounced liberally with their stride. Nalia strained to hear their conversation. While the subject of their discussion held a casual familiarity, the vernacular was decidedly less than modern.

Just as Nalia caught herself wondering how much money the women were carrying, the sound of a water hose captured her attention. Peering from behind the building, she fixed her eyes across the street. Sunlight scattered a rainbow of color through the mist, encircling a broad-shouldered black man like a halo. He was spraying down the walk and watering the young ferns hung from the second floor gallery. His back was turned but Nalia saw his face reflected in the large picture window. It was Mr. John – a young and respectably fit Mr. John. While she recognized his distinct form, Nalia sensed a part of her didn’t know him at all, like an unfamiliar shadow on her soul.

She studied Mr. John closely as he continued hosing down the brick, occasionally turning to smile and wave at those passing on the street. Shine yo’ shoes, sir? he would ask with a raised brow. The tall chairs behind him looked new. Their paint was fresh, and their brass footrests glinted in the morning sun. It didn’t take long for a patron to accept his offer and climb into one of the waiting seats.

Nalia watched carefully, gauging their conversation as more than mere chit-chat. When Mr. John finished polishing the man’s Florsheim, leather wingtips, he slipped around beside the chair and opened a small door in the rear of the platform. From a hidden compartment, he produced a small, fabric bag sewn up around the edges. As they shook hands, Mr. John pressed the sachet firmly into the man’s palm and pulled him in close, whispering instructions into his ear. The man’s face twisted with skepticism as he pulled away, but a reassuring nod and a wink from Mr. John chased away his reservations. Before continuing on his way down Decatur, the man counted several large bills and handed them over to Mr. John who tipped his hat and smiled widely.

Nalia watched as Mr. John slid the money into his wallet and returned it to his back pocket. A hunger stirred her spirit, not unlike the ache in her stomach. Nalia felt the shadow inside her rise. Drawn to the wallet bulging in Mr. John’s pocket, she stepped from her darkened alcove into the warm sun. Quietly, she crossed the street, trying to appear casual and keeping to Mr. John’s back. As she made her way up the walk, Nalia’s heartbeat pounded in her neck, causing veins to bulge and throb. She could not turn her eyes from the wallet.

When her feet reached the wet bricks, foreign thoughts bombarded Nalia’s mind: Quickly. Smoothly. Just like before. Light touch. Slight bump. Pull. Her blood raced hot. Silently she moved, stretching out her fingers, afraid to breathe, fixated. Ever so gently, she slipped her fingertips into the edge of Mr. John’s pocket. She was just about to bump him and take hold of the prize when she caught her reflection in the large, picture window – a skinny, dirty young teen.

Nalia remained dumbstruck for only an instant before a sharp pain tore through her wrist. Her heart leapt as she spun in a panic, her arm burning with the heat of a phantom flame as it twisted to near breaking. Sure it would snap at any moment, Nalia gasped loudly. Her every muscle stricken with fear, she raised her head and stared into the menacing eyes of the great Mambo Lucia Deminy.

__________

With a heaving breath, Nalia startled awake flailing her arms beneath the sheets. For an instant, she had no idea where she was or who she was. By the time she found her wits, the last details of the dream were fragmenting in her mind like bits of driftwood crashing over rock and washing away with the tide. The more she tried to recall the memories, the farther they traveled along the waves. Were it not for the warm, stinging pain in her wrist, she would have forgotten the dream entirely.

Chapter Three

Breakfast was nearly ready when Mr. John heard his bride-to-be at the top of the stairs. He had awakened early and crossed the narrow, gravel drive separating the back of his house from Mama Lu’s before the morning’s darkness faded into memory. Quietly, he let himself into Mama Lu’s kitchen through the back door and went to work.

The pots and pans were hardest to keep quiet. Mama Lu kept them stacked in no particular order in a bottom cabinet beside the stove. After managing to retrieve the proper pans from the precarious stack without an abundance of noise, the rest of Mr. John’s preparation proved relatively easy to keep quiet. He was careful to leave the upper cabinet ajar after removing the coffee cups, to avoid the harsh squeak the door usually made when latching shut.

Near the coffee pot, on the counter, sat a crumpled, brown paper bag filled with all the items he brought along. The previous afternoon, Mr. John visited Hollygrove Market on Olive Street and purchased fresh tomatoes, spinach, onions, chanterelle mushrooms, a sweet red pepper, and a dozen brown eggs he was assured were laid that morning. The orange juice and cheese were tucked away in the refrigerator – the juice, freshly squeezed from the ripest oranges Mr. John could find, and the mozzarella, a product of the market itself.

The details make it memorable, thought Mr. John, as he melted a pat of sweet cream butter in a saucepan and added the chopped onion and pepper. Today was special – exactly two months since he entered the foyer of St. Louis Cathedral, bared his soul, and asked the woman he’d loved for a lifetime to take his hand. At times, he still found it difficult to believe she actually accepted and even harder to fathom in a few, short days, they would be husband and wife.

Mr. John was a simple man – a gentle, compassionate soul with a kind smile and an easy disposition. Apart from his old, box guitar and a fine pipe tobacco, he needed little to remain content in his seasoned years. But if time taught him anything, it was the difference between contentment and fulfillment. Heartfelt blues and fragrant smoke fell far short of the one truly meaningful aspiration for his time on this earth: spending the rest of it with his beloved Mama Lu. The sun in his world rose and set with her smile.

When the vegetables began to reduce, Mr. John added a bit of chicken broth, lowered the heat, and covered them with sliced mushroom and spinach. Sprinkling a bit of coarse salt and fresh ground black pepper over the top, he turned his attention to the eggs, whipping them gently and pouring them into the second pan.

Planning the wedding proved stressful, but Mr. John took it in stride, even when the simple ceremony he envisioned grew exponentially. It turned out he and Mama Lu had far different arrangements in mind. The preparations were nearly overwhelming, and time was not on their side. While the eggs cooked slowly on the stove top, Mr. John started a drip of chicory coffee and sliced the fresh mozzarella into thin strips. If the smell of the hickory-smoked ham he started in the third pan hadn’t already awakened Mama Lu, the sound of the teaspoon he dropped and kicked across the floor just might.

Cursing his clumsiness, Mr. John shook his head and worked frantically. He cut the fresh tomatoes into generous portions and laid them atop the simmering vegetables to steam. Fearing she would awaken any second, Mr. John prepared a cup of coffee just the way Mama Lu liked